


Safe Space

by ljs



Category: Angel The Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: AU, Crossover, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-25
Updated: 2010-09-25
Packaged: 2017-10-12 04:36:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/120862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Diverges from canon(s) post-"Grave" and post-"Tomorrow." Eventually there's another smallish crossover...</p><p>After the destruction of the Magic Box and Willow's rampage, Anya's renounced vengeance. D'Hoffryn in return has sent demon-assassins after her. Giles has other ideas...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“What?”_

Giles's voice almost thundered, Anya thought. Must be a really good transatlantic phone connection on his new mobile -- except that he apparently hadn't heard her the first time. “I asked you if you wanted me to give my Magic Box keys to Xander or Buffy, or overnight them to you despite the insane shipping charge. And we have to talk about changing the partnership papers--”

“No, Anya. Not that part.”

“You mean the part where I said D'Hoffryn will likely send a team of assassins after me because I've turned in my vengeance powers?”

“Yes. _That_ part.” And now his voice had gone quiet: the cool, frightening quiet which either meant 'the dashingly attractive Watcher's in charge' or 'Warning, the dashingly attractive yet surprisingly temperamental Watcher's about to blow like a Yarnok-dimension geyser.'

“Oh. Well...” She was too numb to continue. Or no, maybe the problem was that the hopeless sensation of falling was getting worse. She felt like she was being strangled in slow-motion.

It had been a day or so since she'd made her final decision. She'd been worrying over it practically since the moment she'd accepted the vengeance-amulet again – even sitting there in her ruined wedding gown after her ruined wedding, it'd been as if the stone burned her when she touched it. Of course she'd been heartbroken and not thinking clearly, but later, when she looked at the ruins of the shop Willow had destroyed, she'd understood she couldn't do that any more.

No. Actually the decision had been made when she looked at handsome, injured, dust-covered, heroic Giles lying on the floor of the Magic Box, when she thought he was dying. That's when her own bad choices had hit her with the force of two Yarnok-dimension geysers --

“Anya, pay attention!” That was definitely the 'Watcher's about to blow' voice. “Where are you now?”

“In my apartment. But--”

“Is that a safe space for you?”

She sighed. “Haven't I just explained that _nowhere_ is a safe space for me right now?”

“For fuck's sake... Right. Right, understood. Er... Now then. I want you to go to the Magic Box and wait for me – should be a few lingering traces of our wards, I'd think, enough for the moment.”

“Wait for you?” She closed one eye, gazed owlishly at the cell phone, then put it back to her ear. “Um, Giles, where are you?”

Silence hummed. She'd gotten used to those long quiet suspended moments, actually, in the two months since he'd taken his battered self and Willow to England. While Willow had begun her recovery at the coven, Giles had as well – but he'd taken to calling Anya every couple of days, “er, just to check in,” he'd said, and he hadn't stopped when he went back to his independent work for the Council. She and Giles had business to deal with, of course, the destroyed shop and the intricacies of rebuilding, but most of the time they talked about other things. His travels in search of knowledge, her stock-market trades, good meals they'd had in their lives, what music they liked, that sort of stuff. But then there were the silences.

She sometimes thought she was missing what he really wanted to say, like something important lay underneath both his talk and his silences. Maybe it wasn't the silence that hummed, but this unspoken _thing_.

He broke this particular moment with, “Um, I'm actually at the airport. Just landed in, er, Sunnydale.”

“Oh!” An upswelling of joy pierced her numbness. Of course he would be here to talk to Buffy, who was on her own recovery mission, but still, he was _here_. She said as calmly as she could, “That's really nice, Giles, I've missed you even though we talk all the time. But you'll be jetlagged, and you no doubt have Slayer-business, and--”

“I slept on the plane. I came to see you. And I'd appreciate it very much if you'd go to the bloody Magic Box right now, and take all precautions along the way.”

She was too tired to argue with him. Except: “I could pick you up at the airport, if you want--”

“Magic Box. I'll be there in a half-hour or so. Wait for me.”

But for a little while after he hung up she just sat there, cozy in the warm, sunny space on the floor of her apartment. Funny how she could feel the sunshine on her skin now, when five minutes ago she couldn't. Funny how, just for a minute, she could breathe.

She drove to the Magic Box and parked her car in her old space without any Hacks – D'Hoffryn's favourite assassins, known for their cruelty, knives, and bad jokes – leaping out at stop signs or appearing from side streets. When she put her key into the redone lock on the backdoor, however, she stopped for a second. Leaned her forehead against the wood-over-steel. Missed, desperately, her old routine and her own stupid certainty that she had been safe.

Then she went inside, and shut the door after her. She didn't lock it, despite what Giles had said. It didn't seem to make much difference now.

She sank down in the middle of the empty space – no chairs yet – and looked around.

Xander's crew had done a good job in repairing the structural damage. It had taken the construction guys a month to clear what needed to be cleared, to check load-bearing walls and repair fallen beams and barriers. They'd just finished putting back the ceiling, she saw. But the other work, adding paint and gleam and the touches which had made it the Magic Box, still had to be done. Maybe it didn't have to be the Magic Box this time, since Giles would be in England and she would be dead. She wondered what retail establishment would thrive here. Maybe a bookshop; that would be a nice tribute to Giles...

She blinked away ridiculous tears, because crying did no good, and interlaced her fingers, one by one.

She and Xander had had their last talk here in the cleared empty room. A “postmortem,” Giles had said when she'd told him about it, which made her laugh-- but she hadn't really told him about her conversation with Xander and how Xander had finally given her the details of the vengeance-derived vision of their future.

The best move in any vengeance-game was to use the truth, not lies, and so in the vision Xander had seen what he truly feared about her. He thought she would be unfaithful – she, Anyanka, the one who'd punished infidelity for centuries, the one who'd become a vengeance demon both times because a man had broken faith with her, the one who believed in commitments and vows (and also having as many great times as possible when unattached, but that wasn't relevant). He thought it would be really terrible if she were a success, and he thought she'd scream and nag if he wasn't, even though she didn't give a damn if _he_ made money, it was never about that. But maybe if they'd stayed together, it would have been. Maybe, with him, she'd have become as horrible as he thought she was.

When she'd told him that, he seemed upset, but...resigned. Yes. And they had kissed goodbye, and considering the heartbreak and everything, it was a pretty good ending. She hadn't told him she was going to D'Hoffryn, though. It hadn't seemed right.

Something changed in the room – revived magic and fresh air and a streak of that warm afternoon sunshine – and she looked up. Giles stood at the front door of the shop.

Boy, he looked great, she thought, gazing at him: healthy again after all that hurt, and tall and fit in his jeans and boots and loose, wrinkled button-down, and although he didn't have on his long coat because after all it was July, she could almost see its drape and hear the swoosh of its heroic folds--

“Christ, Anya,” he said, and in just a few steps he was there, his hands catching hers and pulling her to her feet, and then his arms around her in a close, hard hug like he was that sanctuary she now knew better than to believe in.

“Is this hurting you? Are you all healed now?” she managed, and he murmured something and held on tighter.

Then he took a step back, and framed her face with his hands and just looked at her. She wondered what he was seeing, but she knew better than to ask. A man like Giles didn't volunteer any information he didn't choose to.

She forced a smile, felt his long fingers tighten on her skin. “Hi, Giles. Good flight?”

“Mmm. Food was bloody awful, but yes,” he said in his absentminded, scholarly way. Then: “Are you all right, Anya?”

“Well, I haven't been killed yet. I call that a bonus.”

One of his thumbs rubbed over the corner of her mouth. “Yes, I'd call that a bonus too. Now what's the situation with D'Hoffryn?”

“I told you on the phone. I gave my vengeance-amulet back to D'Hoffryn and tried to break my contract, but he said I was still bound to him, and the punishment for contract-breaking would be my death. Pretty standard, really...”

Giles dropped his hands, but laid his cheek against the top of her head. “Yet you're still here.”

“Well, that's the thing. The Hacks--”

“Bloody hell, _those_ blokes?”

“Yes! Well, if you know about them, I don't need to explain their enjoyment of their target's fear and anxiety in the waiting period before they smack...said target. And, yes, he's sent in the Hacks.”

“What a fucking ridiculous name, might as well be a Sondheim song,” he muttered. Then he pulled her down to the floor and followed himself, arranging it so they were practically knee-to-knee. He took her hands again, warm, warmer than anything, and smiled at her. “All right. I've spoken to Grace Harkness – at the coven? -- and she's done some scrying for us. She says...” He hesitated a long time, silence humming all around them. “She says that you and I should take a journey together, seeking... how'd she put it... 'seeking the knowledge that will lead us to sanctuary.'”

Witches liked those portentous phrases, she thought, but pleasing words didn't mean much when Hacks were on the case. Anyway, “How did you get the results of some high-powered scrying in the thirty minutes it took you to get from the airport to here?”

He flushed a little and shifted his gaze. “Er, well, that's not exactly... I'll tell you when we get done with this assassin business.” Before she could question him further, he added hurriedly, “Right, so – we need to get on the road.”

“What? I mean...what?”

“That's usually my line,” he said, and then grinned, wide and mischievous and suddenly oh NO he shouldn't look this unbelievably good when she was about to die and he was Giles – oh. He hadn't finished. “Miss Harkness gave us our first stop, and I've arranged an appointment for tomorrow morning. But we should get out of Sunnydale first, do a little mystical coverup on our tracks, that sort of thing.”

She was so stunned that she let him pull her back up and onto her feet. She let him put his arm around her shoulders and pilot her toward the front door – like a mirror-image of when she'd helped him escape the ruined shop after Willow's rampage, she thought in bemusement. But when they got to the door, she stopped him.

“Giles. _Giles._ Where are we going?”

“Los Angeles,” he said, smiling, “we're going to see an ex-colleague of mine,” and he led her out into the California sun.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter: on to Los Angeles!

"Do _not_ get in the driver's seat,” Giles said sternly.

Anya pushed her sunglasses up on her head so that she could see his glare in the proper colours. She found something oddly attractive about Giles's frowns – at least she did when she felt somewhat confident that he didn't mean them. “Come on, think about it! You're really jetlagged, aren't you? It makes more sense that I drive most of the way to Los Angeles while you nap, and then you can take over. Because, you know, I don't know where I'm going.”

"Where _we're_ going,” he said absently, and then sighed and tossed her the keys. “Oh, for fuck's sake... fine. I'll be right back. Do not allow assassins to get you while I'm gone.”

“I'll do my best,” she said, and jingled the keys at him in a friendly way.

Once he was out of his rented sports car and into the Summers house with his bag, however, she took her time opening her door. She didn't actually expect a Hack to venture onto Revello Drive, right in front of the Slayer, but...Safe for the moment, it looked like. She put her sunglasses back on, tossed her small overnight bag (which Giles had insisted she bring) in the backseat, then got out.

Before she could climb into the driver's seat, however, Dawn burst out of the house. As she bounded down the steps: “Anya, Anya! So you're not a vengeance demon any more?”

"Pretty much. I'm not really sure of the specifics,” Anya said. “But in a general sense, nope, not any more."

"Mostly human, then. I _totally_ get that." Dawn grinned, then hurled herself at Anya for a hug.

Anya held on tightly. After the Willow-meltdown and subsequent recovery, she and Dawn had had a couple of enjoyable ice-cream outings during which they'd talked about how much they missed Tara and how much they enjoyed chocolate sprinkles, but then Buffy had kind of put her foot down. Of course it was only logical the Slayer would have vengeance-demon issues. Now that Anya was (mostly) human, however, hugs might be acceptable. Except --

"Actually, Dawn, since I'm the target of evil Hacks, you probably shouldn't stand so close to me."

"Don't be dumb." Dawn gave her another squeeze before letting go. “Before I got sent out here because of secret Watcher-Slayer gossip, Giles said that you guys are on a quest for sanctuary, and also? He's getting a really big sword from Buffy so you guys can be safe."

"That doesn't help you _now_ ," Anya pointed out, but she appreciated the reassurance. And the idea of the sword.

Anya had settled herself in the driver's seat, and Dawn had gotten well into her skillfully argued campaign for post-sanctuary-finding gifts for former Keys, when Giles and Buffy finally came out of the house. He had changed shirts – a very flattering sage pullover, unwrinkled – and also collected a sword, a dagger, and a star-embossed bag of what she suspected were Magic Box spell-ingredients.

Buffy stayed on the porch, waving, as Giles jogged down the steps. She didn't look angry or Slayery, however. “Call when you can!” she said – to Giles, Anya assumed.

He said, "I'll continue my regular check-ins, Buffy, yes," then, as he got to the car, “And be good, Dawn. I'll check on you as well."

"Okay. Call me, Anya – and you guys be cool and sanctuary-having!" Dawn said in a smug teenage way, before waving to Anya and heading back toward the house.

Before Giles got in, he took a handful of something out of the bag and sprinkled it over the top of the car. Anya couldn't hear what he was incanting, but she could guess it was an anti-tracking spell – just in case using his rental car wasn't enough. He thought of just about everything.

When he finally settled himself – after dumping the sword, dagger, and spell-bag in the backseat on top of their luggage – she had to restrain herself from leaping over the gearbox and smothering him in gratitude. She contented herself with her biggest smile and a quiet, “Okay. Ready?”

"Ready." He smiled back, then reached out with both hands to slide her sunglasses back onto her nose. His fingers slipped from her glasses to her temples, then teased behind her ears before he let go.

He was asleep before they got to the Sunnydale city limits. But, all the way to Los Angeles, the thought of his touch kept her warmer than the summer rays pouring through the windshield. Not even the fully functioning air-conditioner cooled her off.

Once she got to the Valley, however, she had to admit she was semi-lost, and she touched him on the shoulder to wake him. He bolted upright, his strong left hand locked on her forearm, before managing a combination flush-and-cough. “Oh, er... I'm sorry, Anya, did I hurt you?”

Hurt her, no; thrilled her, unfortunately yes. She decided not to frighten him with this information, since he was already being so kind and caring as to protect his business partner from hired Hacks, and said instead, “No, no, I'm sorry I scared you. But we're to Thousand Oaks. Where do you want to start driving?”

He patted her arm before letting go. “Er, now, please. Next exit.”

He certainly seemed to know the way -- zipping in and out of traffic with ease (with one lane-change faking at least one obnoxious Porsche-owner halfway onto the shoulder, which seemed to amuse him inordinately), and then taking them off-freeway into, and over, the Hills. She alternated between obsessively looking behind them for pursuit and surreptitiously looking at him. He seemed...

"You know, you seem really relaxed for someone who's chauffeuring a wanted woman," she said.

He muttered something like “you have no idea,” which she found baffling, and then said more clearly, “Well, I did need the nap after all, thank you... Anyway, I rather thought we'd check into the hotel first, drop our bags, freshen up. Then, even though we don't have an appointment with Wesley – Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, a former Watcher? -- until tomorrow morning, I thought we might drop by Angel's headquarters this evening. Check on Wesley, and, well, alert him to the possible Hack problem.”

"Building a web of protection?" she guessed.

"Couldn't hurt," he said, and then he grinned at her again, the dazzling expression which seemed to be a clue to that humming unspoken _thing_ between them.

Suddenly she felt overheated and confused, but she was willing to go with it. “Okay,” she said. “Hotel first, web of protection second.”

When they got to Sunset Boulevard, however, she put aside the twin concerns of being murdered and figuring out Giles in favour of looking around. She hadn't been in this part of Los Angeles since... “1936, I think. Everything's really different.”

"I beg your pardon?" he said, at which point she realized she'd spoken her thought.

"Oh! I mean, last time I was here was in 1936. Work-related, of course..."

Surprisingly, he didn't snarl at the mention of her past. “Really?”

"Yes. Starlet exploited by a creepy studio executive, blah blah blah. We used to get a lot of those." She linked her fingers together and pressed on her legs, trying to press away the memories – pink-stained bungalows with palm-tree accessories, the smells of cigars and blood, the names and dead-shots spread all over the headlines. They were on the other side from the Garden of Allah, but she remembered it and its inappropriately holy name.

This western part of the Sunset Strip had a surface flavour of 2002, with rock clubs and sushi joints and yoga studios, but she could still taste old deaths.

"Do you want to stay somewhere else?" Giles said. When she glanced at him, he added, “Sorry...Another part of town, I mean. I've booked us a couple of rooms at... well, when I last stayed in L.A. it was the Sunset Towers Hotel, but now it's called the Argyle.”

She made herself smile. “Funny, when I last stayed in L.A. I stayed at the Sunset Towers Hotel too. Seems like a nice circle of blah de blah.”

He smiled back at her, and then narrowly avoided hitting what looked like a drunken studio executive doing the unthinkable and actually _walking_. In _Los Angeles_. Giles had much better reflexes than she'd given him credit for.

This was a distracting enough thought to get her out of the car at the valet-parking place, into the hotel, and through check-in. She kept looking at him, trying to figure out when his surface flavour of Watcher-paperwork-guy had started to evaporate, until in the elevator he finally said, “ _What?_ ”

“Huh?”

“Is there some hideous growth on my face, or...” He apparently couldn't think of an alternative. “'s just, you're staring at me.”

“I'm sorry. I'm just...you're nice to look at.”

“Well, that's encouraging,” he murmured, and then the bell dinged and the door opened and she was being ushered into the corridor before she could ask him anything else.

Giles had asked – with a sidelong glance at her to make sure this was acceptable – for connecting rooms, but he let her go alone into her room first. Nicer than 1936, she had to say: two big beds, a nice television with good cable, mini-bar, all the amenities. But the first thing she did after she dropped her bag and the sheathed dagger (which he had given her in the car) was go to the window and throw open the curtains. The numbness was wearing off, but that meant her claustrophobia was returning.

Los Angeles spread in its smoggy sunset glory all around them. She couldn't see the Hills from this perspective, but she knew they were there. Somewhere out there was the Pacific. Maybe she wasn't really trapped, after all.

A knock on the connecting door made her jump. “Anya?” Giles said softly on the other side. “It's just me.”

“Just a second.” She couldn't find the right button to press at first, but finally she got her side unlocked, her door open.

He filled the doorway on the other side, his hands on the doorframe as if he were balancing himself, freshly washed and strong and smiling. “All right?”

“Yep.” Except -- “Giles, would it be okay if we left these doors open when we're here? Because I just--”

His smile didn't leave. “Because you just would feel more comfortable that way? Of course.” He held out his hand, and she took it. “Er, shall we go out now? Or would you feel easier if you stayed here?”

“I'm going,” she said, and let her pull her into his room so he could collect his car keys and set some basic wards before they headed back out into smoggy sunset glory.

On the way to Angel's hotel – “the Hyperion. Ridiculous for a vampire to run a business out of a place named for the Titan son of the sun-god,” Giles said – he told her a little about his own Los Angeles trips, mostly before Sunnydale. He'd stay at the Sunset Towers Hotel and do business at the St James Club, but then, Giles said somewhat blushingly, he'd sometimes late at night change his clothes and then slip across to hear the blues at one of the nearby clubs.

“At least you don't have to hide all that any more, do you? Your whole, um, surface Watcher-flavour's gone,” she explained. “So you can indulge the rock-music-loving and occasional T-shirt and boots-wearing. And cursing, which I notice you do more and more."

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Anya, thank you,” and he reached over and squeezed her leg.

She didn't know why he was thanking her for a simple truthful observation about cursing, but a wave of inconvenient desire made her forget to ask. Then they turned a corner, and a wave of... _something bad_ hit her. She had to brace her hands on the dashboard and breathe.

"What's wrong?" he said sharply. Then, “Oh, right, we're here.”

They pulled into a parking space opposite the Hyperion. It looked... not deserted, but not right, either. She felt another wave, which this time she identified as sort of claustrophobic -- this time, like being underwater too long or something.

"Anya?" he said, and took her hand again, and the feeling passed.

"Weird. Anyway, do you think we might catch your friend Wesley here?” she said at random.

"Not exactly. Not exactly my friend, either." He compressed his lips on what he was going to say, considered, and then said, “As I mentioned earlier, um--when Wesley left Sunnydale, he, er, needed refuge and a job, which Angel provided. But apparently in the past months, there was a falling out of some kind. I just....”

"Wanted to know more?" Anya finished for him. “Of course you do. And you're going to ask Angel for help."

"Well, er, possibly.” He looked a little distant, as if remembering old pain. “One might say he owes me.”

Anya shifted her hold on the hand she held, cradling it. “Are these the fingers he broke when he was torturing you that time?” When he looked at her, she said, “Xander told me.”

“Yes.”

She felt trapped again, underwater with all her awful memories, cigars and blood and dead-shots of a corpse on satin sheets, but she knew that he needed comfort more. She brought his hand to her face and rubbed her cheek against his long fingers. “They seem all right now. Good for you for healing over.”

“Anya,” he said softly--

And then a _face_ came at them through the windshield – blond messy surfer-type with a bad Hawaiian shirt, but with the telltale red eyes of a Hack.

“Hello hello,” it bellowed, “I'm your Hack and I'll be killing a little former vengeance-demon tonight!”

It tried to leap onto the car, but Giles' wards made it bounce back into the darkening street. “Tricks, haha!” the Hack said joyously, and from nowhere pulled out a clown's horn and honked its big red bulb.

“Oh, jeez, _clowns_ ,” Anya said through her fear, and “Sodding clowns,” Giles said in a completely unamused voice.

But before he could grab the sword or she the dagger, a pale, vaguely feral boy-teen – shaggy and sullen, like a skateboarder gone rogue – leapt into view, grabbed the Hack, and snapped its neck in half.

When the assassin's dead body fell into the street, the horn gave one last pitiful honk.

“That was unexpected,” Anya started to say--

But then the business end of an axe was shoved up against Giles's window. The operator of the axe, an attractive Black man, growled, “Who are you and what do you want?”

For a moment Giles and Anya looked at each other in bemusement, before she said, “Go ahead, Giles. You're in the driver's seat.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Hacks, feral boys, bookshops, and sharing.

Anya's confidence in Giles' ability to deal with a man carrying a large axe was not misplaced.

Using his Watcher-politeness (and dialing down his arrogance, which she often secretly enjoyed but at this moment didn't think would be helpful), Giles said, “Er, hullo. I'm Rupert Giles – a Watcher, late of Sunnydale? -- and this is Anya Jenkins, my, um, partner. We're sorry for the inconvenience with the Hack.” Then, still polite, “Shall I get out and show you my identification?”

The man lowered his axe. “No need for ID. But you can get out if you want.”

“Do you need your sword?” she whispered, but after a good five seconds of thought Giles shook his head and then, with great dignity, opened the car door and got out.

Although her legs were trembling with shock, she was right after him.

Giles was shaking the man's hand by the time she got around the hood of the car. “Gunn. Angel Investigations,” the man said with remarkable terseness. “If you're looking for Angel or Wesley, they're not here.”

At this, the feral skateboarding-Wrath-of-Gods type kicked the dead Hack's horn so that it honked. Gunn shot the boy a look, then added, “And that's Connor.”

“Thank you...” Anya had to swallow belated terror. “Um, Connor. Thank you for killing the assassin hired to murder me.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said – a curiously formal choice of phrasing from a California teen – and nodded to her, then kicked the dead Hack in the head. It didn't honk, however.

“Yes, thank you, Connor,” Giles said. “Mr Gunn, I _was_ looking for Angel, or, as you say, Wesley.” Gunn's locked face shut down that line of questioning, however. Giles regrouped. “But if they're not here, then, er, they're not. Let me leave you my card – and one more thing.”

When he pulled a business card out of his wallet, Anya saw that it was his Magic-Box-proprietor one with the shop number crossed out. For a second she couldn't breathe, hurt by what was gone – but luckily he'd turned around in order to use the top of the rental car as a makeshift writing desk, and she had composed herself by the time he finished. He handed the card to Gunn, saying, “On the back I've written down Buffy Summers' number. She's the Slayer, and since you appear to be shorthanded, if there's any minor apocalypse and you need help or anything, well...”

“We could give the Slayer a call.” By now Gunn was smiling: a charming, youthful expression. “Thanks, man. We might --”

"Hey, Gunn?" This was Connor, who had been standing over the dead Hack and sniffing the air like a... hunting vampire, actually, which might explain the pallor and the superstrength. Except that the last sunlight had only just faded, so maybe part-vamp. Anyway: “I think I smell another one. Not _too_ close, but can we go hunt it?”

"Jesus, that's creepy," Gunn muttered, before saying, “I guess so.”

“I'd really appreciate it,” Anya said earnestly. “Because Hacks usually do their initial hunting in pairs drawn from larger teams, and--”

"--and we would be grateful for a night of respite," Giles said. “We'll be leaving Los Angeles tomorrow, so you shouldn't be troubled longer than that.”

Connor grinned, which was just as creepy as Gunn had said. “No trouble. It's _fun_!”

“Fun, the kid says.” Gunn shook his head, then shook Giles' hand again. “Anyway, hope it all works out for you two – thanks for the contact info.... Connor, wait up!”

The boy was already almost to the end of the block. Gunn took off after him, shouting “Fred!” as he went – which seemed strange, unless that was Connor's other name.

She very carefully didn't look at the body of the dead clown-assassin. Instead, she gazed up at the Hyperion – a big empty block of... emptiness. Angel must have thought it was a safe place at some point, but it wasn't any more. No, it wasn't.

“Hang on, Anya,” Giles said softly, and she realized that she was shaking really, embarrassingly hard. But his arm was around her waist, keeping her grounded until she could catch her breath, and he made sure she got safely into the car before getting in himself.

“I'm sorry for getting nervous,” she began.

He cut her off. “Anya, you're doing... well, really, you're being incredibly strong. Don't worry about it.” The streetlamps weren't on yet, so that all she could see of him were his smile and his warm eyes. “But we might want to take it easy tonight, regardless of exceptionally strong juveniles running around on Hack patrol.”

That struck her as funny, she didn't know why, and they laughed together for a second. But then she said, “Wouldn't you want to go to one of your blues clubs or something?”

“We'll go next time. Tonight I think we should stay in.” He leaned over and caressed just above her knee. She could have sworn that wasn't an erogenous zone for her, but apparently she was wrong. Hell.

It mattered too much just to say in her usual unattached mode, “Hey, Giles, want to have sex?” but boy, did she want to.

The problem was that she _was_ attached – to him. Emotionally attached, even though Hacks were infesting her life and probably going to end it. And although she imagined end-of-her-personal-world sex with him would be scorchingly intense, there were all kinds of ways it could go bad, including rejection, which would hurt because she was really truly attached...

Double hell.

They left the Hyperion in a slightly charged silence. When they got back to Santa Monica Boulevard, however, she had a happier thought. “Hey, hey! Isn't Book Soup around here somewhere, Giles?”

And that was the biggest grin she'd ever seen out of him, despite the hesitance of his, “You wouldn't mind?”

“I've special-ordered enough arcane texts for you from there, I know just how much you like it,” she said. “What the hell, huh?”

“What the hell indeed,” he said cheerfully, and accelerated fast enough to beat out a Jaguar for a spot in the left-turn lane.

For a landmark, Book Soup was a fairly small shop albeit full of West Hollywood hipsters, and with twisty-turny shelving from floor to ceiling making even smaller spaces within the whole. She wandered after Giles, who seemed to know where he was going – until her eye was caught by a bookshelf of older English mysteries. Hey, she hadn't read this one.

Then his warm, tall self settled behind her, his hands going to her shoulders, and she almost dropped the merchandise. “What's that?” he said.

“Um. A mystery by an author I like. I don't have this one, though.” She was proud of her recovery and lack of tremble as she displayed the volume. "Harriet Vane, Death 'twixt Wind and Water."

“Good _Lord_ , that title's filthy, I'd no idea,” he murmured, then plucked the book out of her hand. “I'll get that for you, then.”

“Well, I'd say thank you but it's stupid to buy presents for someone who's going to get killed soon--”

“Stop it. Now come on.” He lightly smacked her bottom with the book before he headed off toward a weird corner configuration of shelving.

 _Oh my God Giles smacked my bottom with the book and that means the whole *world's* going to die,_ she thought. Also, _damn, in other circumstances that smack could be promising._

She tripped behind him, debating whether or not to check on his mental state and potential apocalypse, but then he took a book out of the top shelf and immediately replaced it, the whole shelving-unit split to reveal a hidden archway, and he grabbed her hand and pulled her through the opening, which closed behind them.

Arcane and occult books everywhere in the smallish room, wavering piles on the walls and the floors and the tables, and behind a slice of counter sat a small, thin woman in a cardigan. She looked up from what she was reading, said, “Rupert Giles, hello. Accompanying female, hello,” and then went back to her volume.

“Hullo, Bentley,” Giles said, “this is my partner Anya Jenkins, with whom you've traded before.” Then he dove into the nearest pile of books as if contact with calf-bound volumes and old vellum was the only thing that would keep him alive. Which continued existence, of course, Anya considered vital for a number of reasons.

She smiled at Bentley, who now was surveying her with narrowed eyes. “Hi! Yes, I'm...I _was_ co-owner of the Magic Box with Rupert. I've corresponded with you before--”

“Yes. Nice handwriting.” Bentley returned to her book.

Meanwhile Giles was making pleasure-noises. “The latest directory of demon-assassins! Very useful...And, sodding hell, what's this?” He pounced on a tiny sky-blue book stuck in a corner. His finger teased at the embossed title, and he whispered, “The Prolegomena to the Ways of Refuge. I've never actually seen one before.”

“The Ways of Refuge? That sixteenth-century mystical cult of serenity and... more serenity?”

“That's the one.” He smiled at her. “Their introduction's exactly what we need on our search for sanctuary.”

“I'd think a road map or set of directions would be more helpful, but okay, sure.”

His smile became grin, and he passed the back of his book-holding hand over her cheek before he went to the counter. Meanwhile, she stood there, sort of dazed and lust-filled and yearning. Serenity was going to be pretty damn difficult to find, she thought.

Except it wasn't really. Armed with their books, a large cheese-and-mushroom pizza, and several very good bottles of beer, they went back to the Sunset Towers and set up freshly warded relaxation-shop -- in Anya's open-curtained room, by silent agreement. Giles pulled the small table and the armchair up to the bed where she sat, and they turned on Turner Classic Movies and ate to the accompaniment of the Howard Hawks screwball classic Ball of Fire.

After Anya's first slice and a half, however, she found herself thinking about the figures on the screen. She'd been in L.A. in 1936, yes, and 1931 before that -- “You know, Barbara Stanwyck's name wasn't really Barbara,” she said, as the movie star danced for Gary Cooper and the other professor-types.

“Mmm?” Giles said interrogatively, around a mouthful of pizza.

“Yep. I met her a couple of times – not for vengeance, because she took care of herself, she was tough. But she was also a good person. Whose name was actually Ruby, as I recall.”

“Really. Well, many of those old Hollywood types changed their names, didn't they.” Then he said quietly, “Was your name always Anyanka?”

“No.” She remembered a cold small house in a long-ago land, and crying in the midst of rabbit-fur, and then slowly, painstakingly learning the right spell to take care of herself. Except it was the wrong spell in the end. She said, just as quietly, “No, first, my name was Aud. And when my husband cheated on me, I taught myself just enough magic for vengeance. Which proves Aud was an idiot, right?”

He took a swallow of beer. “No. I'd say that at one time you and I each learned just enough magic to do serious damage. Which might prove we're both idiots, but also might more likely prove we're, um, capable of change. I sincerely bloody hope.”

It was too stupid to cry, so she smiled at him. He looked very handsome in the lamplight, especially with an inviting drop of beer still on that well-chiseled lower lip. “You're very comforting, Giles. And I know you're right about yourself, anyway.”

“I'm right about you, too.” He smiled back. “Er, what name would you like to be called? Do you have a preference, or do you want to return to your roots, or--”

“I'm Anya now. I'm happy to be Anya.” For as long as it lasted.

To distract herself from sadness and desire, she added, “Okay, what name would _you_ like to be called? Because I know about Ripper, and of course there's Giles, and --”

“Rupert. I'd, er, prefer Rupert, actually.” His smile quirked into self-mockery. Sadly, he'd also licked off the beer. “I do realise that some people have some aesthetic distaste for the name, likening it to library-paste-eaters and what not.”

“Okay, true, but that was just in general. You're the _specific_ , and it's a really different thing. A much better and more...masculine and less library-paste thing. Rupert.” She put her hand over his and squeezed. “If it's okay, I'll start calling you that.”

“Yes. It's more than okay.” He flushed a little and looked down at their linked hands. The room seemed to fill with their breathing, silence really a whisper of what she wanted and maybe what he wanted too, she just couldn't tell, and his hand was strong and warm just like the rest of him...

She let go, and, sighing, he stole a piece of mushroom off her pizza – she knew he really liked mushrooms – and they went back to watching the movie until it ended, and then it was time for bed in their separate but connected rooms.

It was surprisingly easy for her to fall asleep, there in the city-lights dark, with the door open to Rupert's dark room. Once asleep, however, she dreamed.

She dreamed of a cold small room, and crying alone into rabbit fur. The sobs turned into clown-honks, though, and something with clawed hands was coming through the window, she was going to die and she deserved it but she had so much more to do, she was just figuring out the giving thing, and then she was trapped underwater, in a big dark block of emptiness. She didn't want to be alone but she didn't know the right spell--

“Anya. Anya, shush, it's all right.” Rupert's voice came through the dark water to her.

Dimly, half-asleep, she felt a long, solid body – no, it was a _specific_ body, it was Rupert – crawl into bed and spoon up behind her. She smelled toothpaste and clean man and limes, just as his arm draped over her waist and his breath stirred her hair. “Shush, shush, Anya darling, you're safe.”

“Thanks, Rupert, please stay here,” she murmured, and linked fingers with his, and fell back asleep without dreams.

Just before sunrise she woke up again. Pink-and-orange morning light filled the window, but she was cold and alone. She rolled over into fading empty warmth and the smell of clean man and limes, her head settling neatly into the dent he'd left in the pillow.

Lamplight shone through the open connecting door, and when she listened very hard, she could hear the rustle of pages turned by his strong hands, she could hear the rustle of sheets whenever he moved.

She wanted him more than she could say. But instead of calling out to him, or even self-pleasuring (the idea of which occurred to her with some force), she gathered his pillow in her arms and rolled back over to watch the sunrise.

It was almost time for the first official stop on their journey, but she felt they were already well on their way.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of ex-Watchers, unofficial legal advice, and front-seat encounters.

"By the way, thank you for sleeping with me," Anya said to Rupert over their room-service breakfast spread on the small table in his room.

He took it well – not even one tremble in the hand holding his cup of tea, not even one appalled eyebrow. “No thanks required,” he said before taking a sip.

“Yes, they _are_ required. Because... you didn't have to do that. Unless I was being so loud because of the nightmare that you needed to shut me up to prevent public disturbances.”

“No, you weren't too loud at all. I chose to, er, sleep with you.” He forked up some eggs, chewed, considered, and then said quietly, “I wanted to.”

Her only possible response was to beam, and so she beamed, and then under the table she stretched out her legs so that her socked feet could rest on his socked feet. _That_ made him jump, but only a little, and he grinned back.

She said, “But you didn't have to get up so early and leave the bed.”

“Oh yes I did,” he murmured. Then, after another sip of tea, he said more normally, “'s jetlag, you see. My internal clock's buggered. So when I woke up and found... er, anyway, I thought I might as well start reading the Prolegomena.”

She glanced over at the bedside table, where he'd laid the book. Looked like -- “A quarter of the way through already, huh?”

“It's still very introductory material, but yes. The unnamed authors have just set up the basic fourfold tenets of the Ways of Refuge -- confronting past selves, weaving connections, um, making and doing, whatever that means, and then being still.”

“Sounds like half the religions in every dimension ever,” she said, and ate the last strawberry.

He smiled. “Yes, but this lot have some rather tidy magicks in addition, and, well... 'Past selves' seems to work. You know Maud Harkness's vision-derived advice was to meet with Wesley first, even before I knew about our Hack problem.”

“ _Our_ Hack problem?”

“That's what I said. Anyway, even though we now have proper business with him, I, er...”

“He's not quite a friend – that's what you told me last night. Well, kill two Garkas with one stone, I always say.” She rubbed her toes over his in what she hoped was a soothing manner.

“I've never actually heard you say that.” He slammed down the rest of his tea, threw down his napkin, and said briskly, “But, right, we'd best check out and be on our way.”

She decided not to press him on why, although he seemed to like touching _her_ well enough, he leaped like a kanga-demon when she touched him. Or rather, she decided she wouldn't press him right now. She was getting nervous about all sorts of things again.

After their happily Hack-free drive through Los Angeles morning traffic, they arrived at Wesley's apartment building, which was grey, imposing and modern, not really Los Angeles-like – except Anya thought it looked a lot like Angel's hotel in its blank emptiness.

“That's one cold place,” she said. “Even in July.”

Rupert put his hand on her back as they went forward. “Yes. And he's gone out on his own: this is also the address of Pryce Investigations.”

Wesley's apartment was on the fifteenth floor, in a private corner hallway at one end. It took five knocks before he answered the door -- and he was damp-haired, disheveled, and artistically stubbled, not much like the tight-butt Watcher Anya vaguely remembered from her earliest days in Sunnydale. Judging from his derisive little snort, Rupert had a unfavourable opinion of the change.

“You're early,” Wesley said in a clipped, bristly manner.

“I think you'll find we're right on time,” Rupert said, equally clipped. “Hullo. Anya, you might remember Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. Wesley, Anya Jenkins, my partner.”

“Where are my manners. Hello, Anya. Giles,” Wesley murmured, and then ushered them into an equally cold, sterile living room – well, with the interesting addition of a pair of woman's stockings draped attractively over a modern floor-lamp. He gave these the stink-eye and then casually pulled them down, wadded them up, and threw them over the sofa. “Please, sit down.”

Once she and Rupert were seated – with her hand on his leg in order to compensate for her nerves – Wesley picked up a notebook and took his own chair.

“Will this consult be on your Council of Watchers account, Giles?” he said, fairly nastily.

“Private business,” Rupert said, just as nasty. “Shall you need to run my credit card first?”

Despite her sympathy for a small-business owner concerned about billing, Anya said, “Okay, okay, _time out_.” If she'd had a whistle, she'd have blown it. To Rupert she said, “Remember the Ways of Refuge? Taking witchly advice? Step one's not starting off so well.”

Frowning, Rupert shot her a look before he sighed and put his hand over hers. “Right. You're quite right.”

"Ways of Refuge?" Wesley said in a much less Watcher-aggressive way. “You're searching for... serenity?”

“In a manner of speaking, er, yes,” Rupert said.

“But also I'm being hunted by Hack demons because I've given up my vengeance-demon job, so if you have any investigatory wisdom on that subject, that'd be great,” Anya said. “Rupert's the one who wants serenity.”

“I _told_ you that was for both of us,” he snapped in a very Magic-Box-familiar way. “Shared, as the Hack problem is shared.”

“Okay, Rupert, I'm sorry. We're both aiming for serenity, Wesley, as well as my not being killed.”

A door opened, sending weirdly blue light into the room, and a cool female voice said, “A contract's been put out on you? I _live_ for contract-talk.”

The voice belonged to a long-haired, long-legged woman – which latter attribute was emphasized because she was only wearing a man's shirt. Wesley's eyes narrowed. He said dangerously, “Lilah, this is a private meeting.”

"Lighten up, Wes. I'm totally off the clock." She advanced into the room – Anya noticed with some annoyance how riveted Rupert appeared by the woman's legs – and sank gracefully into another chair. “You'll want to be careful talking about hacks in Hollywood, though. You never know what'll crawl out from under a studio president's stone.”

Anya found Wesley's glare at this Lilah person rather interesting. It was compounded of equal parts dislike, amusement, and desire, and it made her realize more pointedly that Rupert's glares at _her_ had lost the dislike quite a while ago. Had he started wanting to be nice to her before the incident with Willow? She needed to think about this.

But then Wesley started talking again, in a slightly friendlier way. “Hack demons? How have they appeared?”

“And who sent them?” the Lilah-person added.

Back on task, Rupert said, “The Hack demons, we understand, have been hired by D'Hoffryn, vengeance-demon in chief. Anya, previously Anyanka, resigned her powers recently, and D'Hoffryn has said the punishment for her contract-breaking is death. We met one Hack here in Los Angeles last night, but he was dispatched by a young man named Connor, who then went after its partner--”

“And Connor was with a man named Gunn. In front of the Hyperion,” Anya finished. She couldn't think of anything else to add, since Rupert had done his usual fine job of exposition.

Wesley's pencil snapped from the force of his fingers. He looked upset, and younger than Anya previously would have thought. “Ah. Well, that's very clear.” He looked down at his notebook.

Lilah's glance at Wesley was both mocking and concerned. Anya thought that even Lilah probably didn't know which emotion was strongest. Then the woman said, “All right. We can't have a lawyer giving pro bono advice, of course – at least not _this_ lawyer -- but I'll give you this much. You need to figure out just what 'death' means for the contract in question. With Arashmaharr types, it's not self-evident.”

"Death is death," Anya said.

“Not necessarily. And you should know that, Miss Used-To-Be-Vengeance.” Lilah got up and stretched in a languorous, cat-like manner. “This is just my private opinion for this 'private meeting,' however. Let's not let my firm hear I'm handing out advice.”

“Thank you, but...your firm?” Rupert said.

“I'm an associate with Wolfram and Hart,” she said, smiling, before she swayed out of the room.

Rupert's hand tightened on Anya's – which was enough to warn her to wait until the door had closed. At that point, however, both she and Rupert exploded quietly, “ _Wolfram and Hart?”_ He continued, “For fuck's sake, Wesley, what are you doing with a shark from hell's own law firm? Do you even sodding understand what she's capable of?”

“Yes,” Wesley said coldly. The young, unhappy expression had been wiped away, replaced with... nothing. Cold, sterile nothing. “Despite your low opinion of my personal and professional competence, I do understand just who she is.”

She could feel the change in Rupert's body, the way he carefully released the anger he was holding. She thought this was the first time he'd really breathed since they'd arrived at Wesley's. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I apologize for my most recent remark, and for, um, anything untoward I might have said to you in Sunnydale those years ago. No excuse for it, really, but... Look, we came to you because I think you can be bloody good at your job.”

The room was silent. Anya could hear the hum of the refrigerator in the open kitchen, distant traffic... and a weird soft scratching from what appeared to be a closet.

Wesley had put his hand to his throat – a nasty scar there, looked pretty fresh. When he swallowed, that pain-sign moved. “Actually, Giles, you weren't wrong to doubt me. Aren't.” His hand fell away. “But I'll do my best for you.”

The next forty-five minutes were a blur of high-speed Watcher research and former vengeance-demon assistance. They flipped through Rupert's newly purchased directory of assassins, agreed (with Anya's help regarding descriptive details) that their particular Hacks were Average EK Hacks, which could be momentarily repelled with a mixture of seltzer water, salt, and wolfsbane, and cross-referenced two of Wesley's older texts which gave them the appropriate verbal component for said repulsion. Then Wesley and Rupert, with only the most minimal macho-academic posturing, ground up the wolfsbane in Wesley's pantry, and Anya prepared the potion in two small glass bottles, his and hers.

As she capped the bottles, Wesley said, “Oh, in the bustle I almost forgot. I have a name for you – in your search for serenity, I mean.”

She made sure both tops were secure before she turned around. “Who?”

“Yes, who?” Rupert echoed.

“An anagogic demon, formerly the owner and host of the nightclub and sanctuary Caritas.” Wesley looked sad again, his scar flaring red against his skin. “After... an unfortunate series of events, he left Los Angeles. My latest information is that he's in Las Vegas. Performing, perhaps.”

 _Road trip_ was Anya's first thought, and her second, “This sounds great, but what's his name?”

“Yes, a name would be useful. And how could he help?” Rupert said, then, on a breath, “Ohhhh, right. Caritas.”

“Mercy,” Anya and Wesley said together, and together, just for a moment in the warmest spot in that cold apartment, all three of them touched hands.

Then Wesley coughed and moved away, saying, “Right. Let me just jot this down for you --Krevlornswath of the Deathwok Clan. He usually goes by Lorne, or the Host.”

Rupert took the paper Wesley handed him and put it in his pocket. “Thank you, Wes. A good morning's work for us.” Then, half-smiling, “Should you run my credit card now?”

Wes half-smiled back. “No, actually. This consult's on the house.”

“That's no way to manage a business,” Anya said firmly. “Especially as you'll need the cash in order to call in an exterminator.”

“What?” Wesley said.

“I swear, I think there's something _big_ in that closet,” she said. “It could be dangerous or disease-carrying. You really should take care of it.”

His smile changed, went cold again – although she didn't think this time it was aimed at her. She felt that underwater sensation of wrongness, just like she had last night, before he said, “You're kind to worry, Anya, but you needn't.” Then, with a courteous but final gesture: “Shall I show the two of you out?”

Lilah didn't reappear. It was just Anya, Rupert, and Wesley in the elevator down. There was some semi-awkward Watcher-gossip, and then Rupert asked about Cordelia, at which the temperature dropped faster than the elevator itself. But Wesley recovered his poise. As the doors opened, he said, “I am no longer associated with Angel Investigations or its... personnel. Sorry, couldn't tell you more.”

“They seem rather unhappily shorthanded at the Hyperion,” Rupert said casually. “If you run into difficulties in your private practice, of course, you might, er, call Sunnydale? The Slayer?”

Wesley laughed, and for the first time Anya could see both the hurt man he'd become and the young man he was, like a veil was fluttering over the real thing. “Apocalypse comes quickly enough unbidden, Giles. There's no need to summon it willfully.”

“Well, then. You might always call me.” Rupert offered another of his Magic-Box-proprietor cards. “Anya and I will be busy for a while, I suspect, but after that... if you need anything, that is.”

“What would the Council say to such an offer?” Wesley said slowly.

Rupert smiled. “I'm considering several changes in my professional life. Regardless, I don't care what Quentin Bloody Travers thinks any more.”

Wesley laughed again, even more lighthearted. The two Englishmen then did the whole awkward yet cordial hand-shake thing, and Wes shook Anya's hand too, before she and Rupert crossed the tarry, busy West Hollywood street and got into their car.

Once there, however, as Rupert started to stow away his books in his luggage, Anya remembered her nerves during their breakfast conversation. Really, she could only take so much uncertainty-- “Um, Rupert?”

“Hmmm?” He zipped his bag shut and then turned back around, settling in the driver's seat.

He looked so good, all sunkissed and prescription-sunglassed and blue shirt open at the throat. She couldn't help herself, despite the danger. “Rupert, when we get to Las Vegas, should we get just one hotel room? To share, I mean?”

He tensed. One long finger traced the outside curve of the steering wheel, slowly, before he said, “Of course. Because of the nightmares?”

“Well, only partly. Because -- actually, I have another question first. How come you keep getting all freaked out when I touch you?”

Long finger on the inner curve of the steering wheel this time, even slower, gentler. Then, “I'm not... Because I'm not sure why... Anya darling, I would very much dislike it if you were touching me because you were, um, grateful. I don't want your gratitude.”

She swallowed hard. The inside of the rental car had become steam-hot, she was starting to melt. This problem needed to be clarified immediately, however. “Okay, Rupert. Let's review. This is gratitude.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. His skin was warm and slightly salty in the best way, and he held still under her touch.

Then she put both hands on his shoulders. Scary, but it had to be done: “ _This_ , however, is attachment, both personal and emotional.” She touched her mouth to his, pressed in, opened. The moment was familiar from their one kiss in the Magic Box, except it wasn't. This time she knew who she was, she knew who he was, he had the same information. This time the taste mattered.

And then everything flipped, and she found herself pinned against her own seat, those long fingers on her face holding her still as he took control of the kiss, their mouths moving, their tongues circling, and Gods it was so hot and she was liquifying, she couldn't _breathe_ \--

Then he lifted his mouth, and said roughly, “Right then. One room. Let's go to Vegas.”

“Okay,” she said in a high, shaky voice.

Seatbelts on. Rearview checked for traffic hazards and/or Hacks. Engine on. Smiles, his and hers.

As he merged into traffic, she glanced at him. “I bet you're singing 'Viva Las Vegas' in your head right now, aren't you.”

“No.”

“Yep, you are.”

“Am not.” Then he grinned, wide and mischievous. “Well, possibly.”

When the car zoomed forward, she braced her hands against the dashboard and told herself to enjoy the moment. She ignored that frightening clown-horn honking in the back of her mind.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viva Las Vegas -- featuring a Pylean in trouble.

“'The weaving together of destinies is a difficult endeavour in the best of times, and one must stay protected in the event of untimely tears,'” Anya read aloud. Then, “Do we think this means 'tears' as in weeping or 'tears' as in ripping? I might not be reading it right, or they're being deliberately confusing.”

Rupert said “Hmmm” in an abstracted way. Understandable, of course, because he was looking for their exit from the interstate.

She put the Prolegomena in her lap and looked out at Las Vegas. It looked like Los Angeles, actually, same retail establishments and strip malls, except that she could also see its special glitter not too far away, fighting the dark. Also, even at eight o'clock on a July evening the heat shimmered up from concrete. She could feel it still sneaking into the air-conditioned car, just like it had done their whole trip.

Because of the heat, she and Rupert hadn't immediately left Los Angeles after seeing Wesley. Right after he'd kissed her they'd begun a pleasantly passionate disagreement over whether they should return the rental car and fly to Vegas – her perspective – or drive through the Mojave in the 110-degree portion of the day – his stupid idea. But then they stopped at an internet cafe so she could make travel arrangements, and she learned that a) this Lorne guy was appearing at the Tropicana, b) he was really popular but booking into the hotel meant they'd get complimentary tickets for “Love Your Green!”, and c) if they flew to Las Vegas, what with security checks and late booking issues and the difficulties of smuggling swords and daggers onboard, they might not get there in time for Lorne's ten o'clock show.

And Rupert had only been a teensy bit smug and annoying about winning the drive-rather-than-fly argument – she'd seen him act much more arrogant in victory. She didn't know exactly why he was on his best behaviour.

However, because he'd agreed that maybe they shouldn't zip through the desert when the sun was at its highest, they'd had a long lunch on a green-shaded patio at a secluded restaurant in Laurel Canyon. They'd held hands when not actually eating, and they'd talked about all sorts of things, the hidden demon-hunting messages in St Augustine's Confessions and dimensional travel and magic and Los Angeles in the '30s, and she had felt a lovely, simmering sexual hum the whole time.

She'd gotten her second kiss afterward, too, when instead of opening the car door for her (which he had seemed poised to do), he'd leaned in, pinned her against the car, and curved his left hand around the nape of her neck. “If you don't mind,” he'd said, “I've been thinking about this for bloody _hours_ ,” and he'd dived right in, deeper and stronger than the first kiss. She'd had to slide her hands around his waist to hold on, to keep herself from turning into water, but at the first press of her body against his he'd made a rough little sound in his throat and she'd been lost.

She hadn't calmed down until they were well into the desert. Even so, when they'd stopped at a gas station in Baker – World's Biggest Thermometer, which was really interesting except that then a person knew just how obscenely hot it was, which seemed an ill-advised marketing strategy in almost-Death Valley – he'd stood outside the car in the shelter of the open door, taking off his blue button-down so he could drive in just his thin white T-shirt, and she'd made her own little noises at the way his sunglasses set off the rugged handsomeness of his face, the faint scent of his nice clean sweat, the pull of the T-shirt fabric across his shoulders, the way the edges of his faded bad-magic tattoo rippled when he flexed his arm to toss his button-down inside. She'd wanted to lick the nice vein which went down that arm, and then lick other veins, especially...

“Anya,” he said now, and she blinked.

Oh, yes. Las Vegas. Heat and glitter, brighter now. They were to their exit.

“What did I miss?” she said.

He gave her a half-smile. “I think _I_ missed something. What were you reading?”

“Oh, right.” She flipped back in the Prolegomena. “Weaving of destinies, blah blah... 'one must stay protected in the event of untimely tears.' I don't know how to read 'tears' in that sentence.”

“What's the context?” He made a turn into a whole mess of traffic, and the sky seemed to explode with lights.

She made herself go back to reading. “Next sentence. 'As we know, one might find oneself coming and going. In the moment where one is trapped, one says, “Angels and ministers of grace, loose my bonds” – in the moment one is set free, one says, “Angels and ministers of grace, show me the path.” Either will make a happier weave in the fabric as one seeks.' Okay. So, 'tears' like rips, then.”

“Seems reasonable.” He frowned at something she couldn't see before adding, “Ah, right. The Tropicana car park should be just around here...”

“How do you know that?”

He took another turn. “I've been to Las Vegas before.”

“When?”

He frowned again, then sighed. “Er, the year before we started the Magic Box. I, um, occasionally came up here for weekends...gambling and what not.” He made a funny self-deprecating face. “I thought at the time, why the bloody hell not -- it's not like I had anything to do in Sunnydale.”

She rubbed his shoulder in an attempt to comfort. “Well, I'd guess you won a lot at the tables. All that Watcher-repression means you've got a good poker face.”

Her comment brought out his mischievous grin. The flashing coloured lights caught his expression and made it bigger-- it was like the best kind of summer, without insects or malaria or Death-Valley baking from the inside.

But then they turned into the Tropicana parking garage. Just as she'd been smacked by that sense of underwater entrapment at the Hyperion, she was hit again. This place was a hulking black prison, bars everywhere, no escape, _no escape_ \--

She put her head down on her knees, her hands clasped tightly on the open Prolegomena, and made herself breathe. Rupert said something to an attendant, refused valet service, and then drove on into the black – she registered this distantly, like she was in a cell all alone, bound by iron and paper and words, seeing the world through a tiny broken window.

Refuge, she told herself. Don't be so stupid, Anya.

When she sat back up, Rupert was there in the artificial light to catch her. “Darling, what happened?”

“I don't know. I felt like we were going into a jail, but this is obviously just a casino parking garage, and anyway I've never been sensitive...”

“What does that mean? Who told you that?” His voice was sharp.

“Everyone,” she said matter-of-factly, then blew out a breath. “Okay. Okay, I'm ready to go.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, but then he just shook his head and reached back to get his shirt.

It was horribly hot and neon-fluorescent light outside, like the sun had been beaten back where it belonged, but once they got inside the hotel it was okay. While Rupert checked in Anya kept an eye out for Hacks, but no one looked too suspicious. Of course, who _would_ look suspicious when each person was practically soul-kissing a slot machine, she didn't know.

It was much less jangly and loud and more air-conditioned once they got up to their fifteenth-floor room. She went straight to the windows and threw open the ugly patterned curtains, then pressed her hands to the glass and made herself calm.

“Anya,” he said, and he was there, strong and reassuring--

Except his cellphone rang, surprising her so much that she almost knocked her head on black glass. “Holy moly!”

“Sorry,” he muttered. He'd already wrapped one arm around her, pulling back to safety, and with his free hand he fumbled for the cell, swore under his breath, and then clicked. “Yes, Buffy, hello. Is there anything wrong?”

For the first half of the phone conversation he said stuff like “Oh no, that doesn't sound good,” and “Yes, excellent idea, I know you can handle it.” For the second half of the conversation he said stuff like “Five in one night? Hmm, it's possible that a new and powerful vampire has come to town...No, no, I've told you a hundred times there's no such thing as a master vampire...Yes, well, _the_ Master didn't count-- what kind of cheap fiction have you been reading?” Then, finally, “Right. No, I'm glad you checked in. I'll ring tomorrow to see how you manage...Yes, good night, Buffy. And I'll tell her.”

He clicked off, then threw the phone onto the (unattractively dressed but invitingly huge) bed. Anya watched it bounce twice before his other arm came around her and drew her fully against his warmth. “Sorry,” he said again after a dropped kiss on her hair. “We have two small Sunnydale crises, it seems.”

“Which are?” She was glad her voice wasn't too shaky.

“Worrying rise in the number of fledgling vamps, and, er, Dawn wants to go out with a boy Buffy doesn't like. He has a tattoo, apparently.”

“Yeah, you have to watch out for those guys with ink on their skin.” She finally did push back his unbuttoned shirt and kiss his tattoo, licking only a little, and then enjoyed his wry laugh. “It's good that Buffy feels like she can call you again. After the self-imposed isolation and not-talking this last year, I mean.”

“Yes. Yes, at least I've managed to recover one thing out of my mistakes,” he said. “She says hello to you, by the way. And I say--” he spun her around into his body -- “Welcome to Las Vegas, darling.”

This kiss was gentle albeit still shatteringly hot, and not nearly long enough. But she understood. “Welcome to Vegas, honey. And I can't believe _I'm_ saying this, but we should stop the sexy kissing before we mess up that big ugly bed and start exploring each other. We've got a show to see.”

At least he laughed again, although it wasn't any less frustrating for her. Now that she had a sense of what she was missing, she really... missed it. But a job was a job.

Once they'd both cleaned up from the drive – they negotiated bathroom time as easily as if they'd lived together for months-- they headed down to the Greene Room where Lorne was headlining. The journey took them through a maze of gaming rooms, all sound and lights and gamblers' whimpers of joy or bankruptcy, depending...until the last room, when she saw the man in baggy shorts and a red nose which wasn't actually sunburn, when she caught the glint of a blade in his hand. Assassins were really easy to spot after all.

“Hack,” she said in Rupert's ear, and fumbled for her purse.

“Hiya, folks!” the Hack said, bounding up to them. His smile was pure malice. “I hear you're a couple of live ones, but not for long--”

With one fast elbow to the throat Rupert knocked the Hack into an empty slot machine. Before it could recover, Anya brought out her potion, wet her fingers, then flicked the potion-drops into the Hack's eyes. The liquid hissed when it touched the assassin's skin, and he contorted in pain.

“In the name of St Oscar,” she said, “don't break the fourth wall,” and she flicked another dose onto him.

Hiss, contortion, smoke, disappearance.

“That is the most ridiculous spell,” Rupert said after a second or two, “but it's certainly effective. Wesley did well for us.”

“Yep.” She made herself stop the shiver before it happened. “Hope we've made enough magic stuff.”

He caught her hand – the still damp one – and brought it to his mouth. “You all right?” he murmured, his gaze on her face.

“Yep.” This affirmative sounded better. Stronger. Yep.

But she kept looking behind her as they got in line for Lorne's show. One guy in the distance made her tense a little – he had clown-eyes, she thought – but then they got up to the door of the venue, out of reach. It should have been safe, but then she looked at the bouncers, big and thick-necked...

Once more she was in that cell, bound by iron and paper and words, and she wanted _out_.

She and Rupert took one step closer, however, and Rupert gave the guy their tickets, and the feeling went away as they crossed the threshold.

The Greene Room lived up to its name. Shiny emerald fabric flowed everywhere, even on the tables; fat green candles flickered in their holders; grass-green tumblers held the drinks. The place was packed with people – couples, straight and gay and indeterminate; old, young, inbetween -- and several demons who could pass in a crowd like this. Music, vibrant dance stuff that made her want to move, was playing in the background.

“Where shall we sit?” Rupert said, scanning the few available tables. “Close to the...singing so that we make contact with Lorne, or far away?”

“I'd say, sit close.” Anya was already swaying to the beat.

“Dear Lord, save me from sodding dance music,” he said under his breath, but he led her to a frontside table nevertheless, and held onto her once they sat down.

Almost as soon as they'd been served their drinks – really bad champagne cocktails; the draw at the Greene Room sure wasn't the liquor -- the lights shifted to the stage, lifted to the curtain, changed to a bright-edged verdant hue. The music got louder and hotter, and then--

"' _You make me feel mighty real_ '" sang out a pleasant male voice, and the stage curtains parted to reveal a very tall, handsome (in his way) Pylean in a glittery silver suit. The trick of the lighting and drapes meant that his very green skin just looked like part of the theatrical effect, rather than a marker of his demon identity. Behind him danced a row of very Vegas showgirls in cascading chartreuse feathers.

Anya glanced at Rupert, as she remembered his attention to that Lilah-person's legs, but he was too busy wincing to pay attention to the chorines' gams. “For fuck's _sake_ ,” he muttered.

It was her turn to kiss him in comfort. “Don't worry, honey. Despite everything, I know you have a rock-and-roll heart,” she whispered.

She didn't know why he burst into what in another man she'd have called giggles, but he pulled her from her seat and into his lap so he could laugh into her neck, and that was good enough for her.

The show was excellent, even though she knew it wasn't to Rupert's taste: lots of singing, and laughs, and jokes, and dancing. Lorne was a talented entertainer, but she wondered why he looked so tired in the few seconds he let his mask slip. Something might be wrong with him, although then why Wesley would send them to him...

She forgot the worry when the music changed to an old disco song she knew from her occasional aerobic workouts at the Sunnydale Athletic Club. Lorne raised his arms and caroled, “Audience participation time to finish the night, my canaries! Sing sing sing your hearts out, and it'll bring you luck!”

This apparently was a much loved part of the show, as half the crowd rose to their feet, waving drinks and/or gaming chips and singing out, “' _Ain't no stopping us now_!'”

“' _Ain't no stopping us now_ ,'” Lorne sang, then “' _I know we've got a long long way to go and where we'll end up I don't know, But we won't let nothing hold us back, we're putting ourselves together, we're polishing up our act...'”_

Anya approved of this message, and before she knew it, she was on her feet and singing, too. Rupert raised a cynical eyebrow, of course, but then smiled and held onto her hand as she danced.

Lorne passed between the tables, microphone out so that the crowd could hear themselves – it was more a love-in than a performance at this point, Anya thought, still dancing. The strains of vacations and money-loss and interpersonal difficulties were melting off every member of the audience with every note.

When Lorne reached her, though, she got that hit of darkness again – prison, cell, iron and paper and words – just as she sang for him, “' _Ain't no stopping us_...'”

He stopped dead in his tracks. No, he didn't look well at all – the green skin was sickly close-up – and somehow she remembered the Prolegomena.

She thought to him and for him, _Angels and ministers of grace, loose the bonds &_.

He turned away without acknowledging her. “Come on, lovelies,” he said to the next table, and the music kept rising, the lights kept flashing.

She didn't know why she felt so rejected, except of course she had been.

But Rupert pulled her back to his lap, which made the hurt better, and he whispered, “The lights changed when you sang – what did you do, darling?”

“Just thought a spell,” she whispered back.

“Hmm. Interesting.” He narrowed his eyes at Lorne, who was centre stage again.

This song was the end of the performance, it seemed. Lorne made his various gracious-fake show-biz noises and disappeared, the house lights came back up, and the bouncers took their places. It was clearly time to go.

“We should try to see him now – only one show tonight,” Rupert said, and he led her to a door she hadn't noticed before, then down a cool backstage hallway.

Before they could get more than a few paces in, however, an especially musclebound bouncer found them. “The Host doesn't see anybody,” he said, blocking the passage so they couldn't get by.

Rupert assessed the guy for a second or two, then nodded. “Right, sorry. Just wanted to tell him how much we, er, appreciated his work.”

“Lots of people appreciate his work,” the bouncer said, and pushed them back out into the emptying venue.

She wanted to say something, but Rupert put his finger to her lips. “In the room,” he mouthed.

They made it back up to the fifteenth floor without incident, although she noticed the same Hack-like guy she'd seen before watched them leave the gaming rooms.

When the door closed behind them, Rupert threw the keycard on the desk. “Yes, something's _very_ wrong here,” he said without preamble. “We need to talk to him. Tomorrow we should try to find another way backstage – we might research the hotel layout.”

“If we call Dawn, she might be able to figure it out online,” she said. She wrapped her arms around herself to stop the shivers. “She and Willow didn't get along this past year, but I think Dawnie learned a trick or two anyway.”

“Yes, she's a very clever girl. And then we might call Willow herself, too. She should be well enough to help. And then there are two shows tomorrow night...” He trailed off, gazing at her. “Oh, _Anya_ ,” he said in a quite different and wonderfully familiar voice, and then she found herself on her back in the middle of the bed, with him on top of her.

"Hello," she said quietly, and smoothed her hands over his back.

“Hello.” He smiled at her, then took off his glasses and threw them onto the nightstand. “I suggest we call a halt to business for the night, and begin the evening properly.” His mouth lowered, tantalizingly close.

But she had to say it. “While I really want to start the exploration of each other's bodies, Rupert, I have to tell you that I'm lying on your cellphone. It's not so comfortable.”

He collapsed into laughter – and okay, _that_ was a nicely hardening cock in his trousers, she thought – and while he chuckled helplessly, she got an arm underneath herself and collected the phone. Which, she saw with dismay, had a flashing light denoting a missed call. BUFFY, the display read. Anya began, “Um, honey--”

A syncopated series of knocks on the door cut her off.

"Oh, God, is that the second Hack?" she said in a far too weak voice.

He put his finger to her lips again, then got to his feet. Gosh, he suddenly didn't look like a librarian-shopkeeper at _all_. Collecting his sword on the way in one smooth move, he went to the door. He looked out. “What the sodding hell--”

And suddenly the room was full of one long-coated and fedora-ed Pylean, saying breathlessly, “Where is she, where is she....”

Then she was pulled to her feet by big green hands, she was kissed in a sweet sexless way, and Lorne said, “Thank the _Powers_ that you two came to save me! Now let's get out of here, my pumpkins!”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's nothing like a Pylean _ex machina_ , Anya says.

“Come on, kittens, chop chop!” Lorne, who was blocking the elevator door open, waved one long hand. “We've got fifteen minutes to get off Tropicana property before my cage doors slam down again!”

“We're hurrying,” Anya and Rupert said, almost in unison. Then she added, “If you just leave the keycard in the room, honey, maybe we can check out from the road?”

“Already done. Now, do you have everything?” Rupert said, his hand on the doorknob.

“Luggage, purse, dagger, potion. Check. You?”

“Luggage, sword, potion, car keys. Check.” He closed the door.

Lorne was almost dancing with impatience. “Listen, Nick and Nora, it's no time for banter between the overly organized. Get on the good foot!”

They were already there, however, pushing past him into the elevator. With a loud sigh Lorne stepped back and stabbed at the Lobby button. The doors slid together, and the elevator jolted into motion.

Anya could understand his impatience, mostly. They hadn't had time for a full debriefing yet, but he'd said something about his reading her spell in the Greene Room and using it against the extremely unscrupulous gangsters holding him captive for his anagogic gifts. But apparently the Ways of Refuge spell had a pretty quick expiration date -- in this case, midnight.

After shifting her burdens, she ran her fingers down Rupert's forearm and then turned it so she could read his watch. “Fourteen minutes now,” she said. “Oh, and Lorne, the Nick and Nora thing, which I'm assuming is a reference to The Thin Man because they're not our actual names? Rupert and I aren't drinking currently, or married. Sadly, we haven't even had sex.”

“Thanks to him,” Rupert muttered.

“I know your names and a lot more, sunshine, and I'll make it up to you two with a nice reading,” Lorne said, with a swirl of overcoat. “That is, if we get out of here prontissimo.”

Rupert cleared his throat. “I'm sorry, Lorne. I, er, shouldn't have said that, we're happy to help you.”

Anya said regretfully, “It's not entirely true, either. Remember, Rupert, Buffy's left you what looks like an urgent message, which would have stopped the sex in any case.”

“Thank you for reminding me, darling. I'll check when we get out of here.” His smile was warm and rueful and just for her, and its sweetness motivated her to lean forward and kiss his nice, broad shoulder --

Which tensed when the elevator shuddered to a stop and the doors hissed open. “What?” she said, muffled.

His right arm slid behind her back, and she looked up. Two Tropicana bouncer-types filled the open doorway.

Lorne turned a paler shade of green and hit a muted but unmistakable high C.

Rupert said in his most calming Watcher-manner, “Just start walking, Lorne. And keep walking.” But despite the calm Anya saw him get a grip on his sword, and she hastened to follow suit with the dagger. He nodded, and they emerged into blinking-light shrieking Vegas lobby action.

When they went past the bouncers, she could smell very nasty, very intense brimstone. She walked faster.

The bouncers hounded them through the lobby, right on their heels. It was too public for actual violence, she guessed, too many people calling out compliments and sexual innuendo to Lorne the star, who was laughing and waving as if he weren't walking for his life.

A couple of times a bulky-muscled thug tried to take a blocking position, but each time Rupert murmured something Anya couldn't quite make out, and the thug had to step back. Repelling curse unrelated to Hacks, she further guessed.

What worried her was Rupert's increasing pallor – he shouldn't be doing strong magics yet, he had been so terribly hurt and then convalescent for too long. She needed to take care of him once they got out of here. _If_ they got out of here, of course.

The dark exterior and the parking garage would be the tricky parts.

The black doors loomed before them. The brimstone smells got stronger. Pushing back memories of old entrapments and massacres, she murmured, “Angels and ministers of grace, get us out of here,” and tightened her grasp on her dagger.

The doors opened. The heat slammed her in the face, a bouncer's hand dropped onto her shoulder --

And then came the honk honk honk of a clown's horn, louder than any slot machine, louder than any bad memory.

“Not your game, buddy!” said the Hack-like guy Anya had seen earlier, and the bouncers stepped back. It probably was the curved, shiny knife in the Hack's hand that took precedence, or honour among assassins, something like that.

She got the potion out just as the Hack made his first swing at her. Her hands shook, but still she got it open and her fingers wet, got him in the eyes first snap. “In the name of St Oscar, don't break the fourth--”

“Not happening,” said a new voice. Another clown-honk, this one deeper and less funny. Another Hack, this one in no way Average: pomaded 50s hair and 80s eyeliner; irritatingly well-cut, shiny suit which went with the tastefully red clown-nose; much bigger knife. He pushed the lesser Hack out of the way and kept coming.

She heard Rupert say something to Lorne, heard the jingle of keys, heard a whoop from a lucky gambler inside. She couldn't seem to move.

“In the name of St Oscar,” Rupert growled, suddenly right there right _there_ , “don't break the fourth wall,” and the Vegas night lit up with potion droplets gone a bright clear white. He'd sure put a kick in the spell.

The above-Average Hack froze when the droplets hit him, but his eyes were alive, circling in the sockets like spun bicycle wheels. “That's not going to do it, guys,” he got out.

The words were enough to shove her back on offense. She snapped more liquid on the first Hack, while Rupert did his super-charged version on the above-Average one, and together they spoke the right incantation, high and low.

Her Hack disappeared. The above-Average one, still frozen, faded a little, but his nasty red-lipped smile didn't. “That's not going to do it, guys,” he said again.

From the parking garage came the much more reassuring and less Hack-like honk of a car horn – syncopated, too. Must be Lorne--

“Come on,” Rupert said hoarsely. He grabbed her hand.

They ran.

Before them was the opening to the parking garage. Behind them, footsteps rang out, and the cry of some random drunk passerby, “Hey hey, where ya goin'?”

She felt battered by her luggage, by her purse, by...everything. But Rupert's hand stayed tight on hers. Together they ran faster.

Car horn again, a merry beep beep beep, and red taillights just at the entrance. With a last effort she and Rupert leapt over the threshold, then into the open car door positioned just right. Together they tumbled into the back seat, falling onto bags and cushions (but luckily not the sword, which would have been painful).

Lorne had punched the gas even before she managed to close the door.

“Rupert, Rupert, are you okay?” she said urgently. He was lying on his back – also luckily, she hadn't kneed him in any important place – his hand to his forehead. She smoothed his shirt over his heart.

“Um.” He swallowed hard. “Just a little, er, tired. Haven't done real magic since...”

“I know, honey. Rest.” She kissed his poor sore head, then looked up just as they cleared the main entrance to the parking garage, emerging into that burst of insane Vegas light. Lorne was grinning – well, the clock read 11:58. “Looks like you're free, Lorne.”

“Sing hallulujah! But I'm going to drive like a Meatloaf song until we hit the city limits anyway, precious girl,” he said. “And where are we going after that?”

Which question made her remember Buffy's message. “Sunnydale, California, home of the Slayer -- I expect, anyway. I'll check.”

Rupert was struggling to sit up, but after putting sword, dagger, and his bag on the floorboards, she gently pushed him back down. “Rest, I said. But give me your cell so I can call Buffy for you.”

Bathed in the fading Strip lights, he smiled at her a little wryly. “If I weren't feeling so vile, I'd clarify that you're not allowed to boss me around. But for now, darling, I'll accept it with grace.”

“Ho,” she said, while he fumbled for his cell. Then she took it out of his shirt pocket herself. One speed-dial, three rings, and then, “Hi, Buffy, this is Anya calling for Rupert, I mean, Giles. He's magicked himself temporarily sick--”

“No, I haven't.” He reached up for the phone, but she batted his hand down.

“ _He's magicked himself sick_ , like I said, but I'll tell him whatever needs to be told. What's up?”

Buffy's voice sounded strained. “No, it's not important, just an extra-big, extra-vicious demon crawling out of the sewers and needing identification and killage. Is Giles okay?”

“I'm fine,” he said gruffly, and Anya corrected, “He'll be fine if he takes it easy for a while, and I'll make sure he does. Anyway, we're just leaving Las Vegas with Krevlornswath aka Lorne, a dynamite entertainer and anagogic Pylean we've just rescued from--”

“From the worst contract in the history of show business!” Lorne interjected.

“From the worst contract in the history of show business. Which is good, because he seems to be a really nice guy, if one with bad timing.” She and Lorne beamed at each other. He'd taken off his hat, and even his little red horns seemed to smile. “Anyway, I'd think we'd get to Sunnydale in a few hours – we'll eat breakfast on the road, but see you early early for sewer-monster consultation?”

Somewhere in the Sunnydale background Dawn groaned something about not getting to sleep in, but Buffy hushed her. “That'd be great, Anya.” Then, not quite reluctantly, “You take care of yourself as well as Giles, and we'll see you soon for morning research and stuff.”

As she clicked off, Lorne said, “I'm thinking we should stop for gas, but then let's get the hell out of Oz... and I'll drive.”

They followed Lorne's excellent suggestion – getting some snacks as well as gas on the outskirts of Vegas, checking out of the hotel via phone, and then heading into the desert dark. Rupert seemed much less shattered after some Snapple (about which he complained) and trail mix (about which he complained more), well enough that she felt comfortable in curling up in the backseat in his embrace.

She fell asleep to cooling wind through half-open windows and the sounds of Rupert's heartbeat, percussion to Lorne softly singing “the back catalogue of Mancunian songstress Lisa Stansfield, don't mind me.”

The nightmares stalked her, of course. Bad dreams of Aud, worse dreams of Anyanka, worst dreams of poor Rupert being hurt, making soft pain-noises--

Wait. Those were real.

She woke to Rupert's rapid heartbeat and his uneasy moans. She couldn't make out any words, but she didn't have to – she hoped she hadn't transferred her fears to him somehow. Carefully, she slid up his body and put her hands around his face. His skin was achingly tight against her fingers.

"Wake up, Rupert. It's okay. You're okay," she whispered.

He murmured something that sounded like her name.

“Yes, it's Anya. Wake up and be safe.” She kissed him then, as gently as she knew how. He tasted of good salt and bad dreams. “Wake up and be safe,” she said again.

He opened his eyes. He'd taken off his glasses when they'd settled in together, so there wasn't any barrier between his blurred hazel gaze and her. “Anya,” he said huskily, then licked his lips. “Sorry.”

“For what? Bad dreams happen.” She smoothed down his hair, which was sticking up. “Anyway, have you been having nightmares all along?”

“Right after...the incident with Willow, yes. But, then, not lately, er...” He seemed distracted. “Never mind that,” he said, and kissed her with serious intent.

It was initially awkward, of course, because he was sort of jammed up against the door and she also had to be careful not to jab him somewhere vulnerable (if currently hardening), but he managed a long, deep, slow kiss she'd bet was strong enough to beat any nightmare. Percussion of his heart, faster now, and the sweet slide of tongues--

“Kittens, don't forget I'm here,” Lorne said in a pointed manner from the front seat. “Save that for after breakfast and your reading, okay?”

Rupert groaned –embarrassment, not pain-- and rested his forehead on hers. She could have stayed there for hours, but then she thought of something-- “Um, Lorne, are you saying that our reading could be bad? Like, no kissing any more?”

“No, sweet lips.” He laughed melodically, like he was scat-singing. “I already called you Nick and Nora, didn't I? I'm just saying you're not as far along the path as you'd like to be, and also? _I'm still here._ ”

"Points taken, Lorne, thank you," Rupert said. She silently agreed, especially since Sunnydale wasn't too far away. It looked like they were leaving the desert.

Murmuring something she couldn't catch, Rupert urged her to turn around in his lap so that her back was to his chest. They re-balanced, entwined fingers. Together they watched the sun rise and dip, rise and dip, behind the dry eastern hills until it finally rose all the way.

Lorne stopped just outside Sunnydale at some interchangeable 24-hour pancake place. Even at 5 am the place had such garish lighting (not to mention laminated seats and tabletops) that his colouring didn't really stick out here. He wore his fedora anyway.

They made a terribly rumpled group there in the most secluded booth, Anya had to admit. But the jaded waitress took their orders for pancakes, eggs, fruit plates, and coffee quickly enough and without fuss, and then they all looked at each other.

Rupert cleared his throat, and began, “Thank you for driving us, Lorne. I don't even know... I mean, we should have asked...”

“I was happy to high-kick it across the Mojave,” Lorne said. He opened a little container of cream and swirled it around. “Do you know, about mile one-hundred I realised that you two hadn't told me how you even came to the Tropicana, or knew who I was.”

“Your former associate Wesley sent us!” Anya said cheerfully.

The cream spilled over Lorne's hand. “Wesley? Little Mister Hit-Me-on-the-Head-and-Run-Like-Hell Wesley?”

She and Rupert looked at each other, puzzled, then Rupert said, “He didn't say that you two had, er, fallen out. He didn't know you were in trouble, either. He just recommended you as a source for truth.”

“Rupert's on... I mean, _we're_ on -- don't give me that glare, honey-- a mission to find sanctuary, serenity, yadda yadda. You seemed to be the go-to guy, Wes said.”

Lorne quietly mopped up his cream-green hand. Then, just as quietly, “Maybe. I often can't see for myself what I can see for others. You understand that, don't you, Anya.” He smiled with half the wattage of his usual grin. “But I've already seen a bit of your path, and I'd like to see Rupert's. Could you sweet things give me a song?”

The annoying, tinny soundsystem was playing a song often called a standard. Rupert raised his head, listened for a second, then smiled. “How appropriate. Do you know that old one, darling?”

“It's not all that old, considering my lifespans,” she said. “But okay.”

He took her hand, and together they listened, and then together they sang a few bars. “' _My funny valentine, sweet comic Valentine, you make me smile with my heart....'”_

Lorne waved his hands at them to stop. His eyes suspiciously bright, he said, “That's a _very_ nice blend of voices, kittens, you gotta take that show on the road. Let me tell you what I heard.”

Rupert's hold on her hand tightened, and she gripped back.

In a hypnotic voice, one that rang true like good music, Lorne said, “You two have begun to weave the right connections, thread upon thread. Some of the links are between what and who you were, and between what and who you're leaving behind. Got to pack up your troubles in your old kitbag, huh, Rupert? And leave that bag behind to make room for the power you two don't realize you're carrying. See, most of the links you'll make are for yourselves, you cutesome twosome. I'll do my part now, don't worry -- you're going to leave all us Californians with a sparkly tough fabric. There's just one more thread to add to the whole, and then you can find rest together– but it won't be here.”

“But I'm being hunted,” Anya had to point out. “You saw the Hacks yourself!”

“Don't let your guard down, lambkin,” Lorne said. “Still, I see such sparks for you that I'm not worried. Just one more thread, okay?”

“Yes. 'Making and creating' leads to refuge,” Rupert murmured. Then, louder, “If not here, Lorne, where?”

“England. Go to London first. There, Rupert, you'll figure out a place you've never been, a good safe place, where you can say to your sweet Anya what you haven't yet said -- what you've been meaning to say.”

Rupert looked out the window – but before he turned his head, Anya saw the beginnings of a flush, the beginnings of a smile. Without looking at her, he interlinked their fingers, one by one. “You know, Lorne, you're bloody good at this.”

“Tell me something I don't know,” Lorne said merrily. “And oh, here's our lovely waitress! Fruit plate's mine, sweetness!”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Hack-free interlude for transatlantic travel.

“Now boarding Club World passengers for Flight Twenty-Seven to London Heathrow,” the British Airways gate-clerk announced, in a soothing and expensive way. “Club World passengers, you may board at your leisure.”

“That would be us,” Rupert said. He got up with only a creak or two – overnight in a car didn't do much for anyone's muscles and bones, Anya thought; she was feeling a little creaky herself – and then extended his hand for her.

She didn't need it, strictly speaking, but there was something so... nice about being coddled just this once. She beamed up at him, then used the lightest pressure on his strength to help herself up.

Once in the tunnel to the plane, however, she found herself a little dizzy, as if the tunnel curved in time as well as space, as if hot Los Angeles air seeping through the cracks in the tunnel were other-dimensional – summer on Arashmaharr, perhaps, where the flying predator-demons stirred up geyser-borne heat to an unbearable pitch. She'd always hated those dumb not-birds.

Stop it, she told herself. This dizziness was just sleeplessness, she told herself.

After their extremely early morning breakfast, she, Rupert, and Lorne had driven into Sunnydale. Buffy, looking bleary, had greeted them with a single wide-eyed look at Lorne – a sequined suit was so much shinier in daylight – and a “Hi, guys, want doughnuts?” They'd declined, and then come in and had coffee and a brisk thirty-minute research session, during which Rupert (cleverly enlisting and guiding Dawn's help, Anya noticed; this was new) identified the Kokos filth-demon, its nasty habit of eating senior citizens, and the preferred method of killing it. Unfortunately, this would require more than one hand, as the Kokos needed head cut off and disemboweling almost simultaneously.

Buffy had muttered something about missing her patrol partner. Rupert sort of twitched, but then said neutrally that yes, Spike had been helpful for things like this. In the absence of a vampire slaying-assistant, however, Rupert had recommended building new bridges to the help available in Los Angeles. “Not Angel, who seems to be...unavailable,” Rupert had continued. Here it was Lorne who twitched. “But Anya and I have spoken to a couple of Angel Investigations, er, staff? Gunn and Connor.”

“Only one name apiece, like Madonna?” Dawn had asked, and Buffy had added, “Or Angel.”

“The latter has at least two names, of course,” Rupert had said crisply, and Anya had put her hand over the one Angelus had tortured. “But yes. In any event, they certainly seem good at patrolling.”

Although Lorne had been making happy faces with the filling of a jelly doughnut, he'd looked up at that. “You know, baby-loves, if Gunn and darling Freddikins and Wonder-Boy are busy, you could always ask...” A heavy, not so happy breath, then, “Our other Watcher-lad. I mean, just keep Wesley away from prophecies and heavy objects, and you're onto a starring gig.”

When Buffy had protested, Rupert had explained about the fourfold Ways of Refuge and the things about connection they'd learned on their so far short but eventful journey. This hadn't silenced Buffy's irritated refusal, but at that point Dawn had said brightly, “Hey, Lorne, we might have some old clothes of Riley's, if you want another shirt? 'Cause we could do laundry? And, Anya, what about you and Giles?”and hustled her and Lorne out of the living room. Which had been unnecessary, considering that Anya had already known there needed to be private Watcher and Slayer conferring. She'd recognized the glint in Rupert's eyes.

But the conference hadn't taken long. In fact, Lorne had been only halfway through his outraged explanation to Dawn why “the Host doesn't wear polo shirts, my glowing-haired girl, the Host has standards” when Rupert had eased into the kitchen, rested his hand on Anya's nape, and asked Dawn if perhaps she could help him book two tickets to London for an afternoon flight--

Anya blinked at one last wave of heat, and then artificially cooled air and change of light. Just inside the door the flight attendant checked her and Rupert's tickets, and then smilingly ushered them to an almost empty section.

No, this must be a mistake. “Rupert,” Anya said, “this is business-class.”

“Yes,” he said absently. “Do you want window or aisle? I don't care.” He picked up her carry-on and stowed it overhead, next to his – then reconsidered and started rooting through a side-pocket of his bag. “I think I'll want to keep the Prolegomena close. You need anything, darling?”

Despite the relatively empty section, she crowded close to him – well, she did need to get her copy of Death 'twixt Wind and Water in case the in-flight entertainment was bad – and whispered, “No. Honey, that's not what I meant. I mean... business-class is expensive.”

“Not to worry. I'll just live on beans on toast for the rest of the year,” he said. Then, “If you're not going to choose, I'll take the window,” and he sat down in what looked like an extremely comfortable recliner.

She blinked. After grabbing her book, she dropped to her knees in the aisle seat, only partially because it was faster. She just felt so dizzy. “Okay, I know I talk about money a lot and very much enjoy making it for myself, but... you know I don't need you to spend large amounts of money on me, right? Especially if it means you have to eat beans which can be difficult to digest--”

He smiled. “I was joking, Anya. 's fine. Er, why don't you sit down?”

“But no, really, I want to pay my share. I have some stock holdings and/or savings, which I should be able to access before the above-Average Hack finds us again--”

His mouth tightened. In the cool voice she didn't hear very often any more, he said, “I said it's fine. Please don't worry about it. About anything,” and then got his arm around her and pushed-pulled in a rather commanding way, so that she had to rearrange herself and sit properly.

They sat like that for a few seconds, until they spoke at the same time, “Rupert I'm so sorry” and “Anya, really,” and then they laughed at the same time.

He took her hand in his. “Darling, it's just... I understand that you're more than capable of making your own way. I'm, er, glad that you're so capable, actually. But would you let me do this for you? I'd like, well, I'd like to give you this.”

She felt confused, warmed, and turned on, which didn't seem like the appropriate mixture of emotions. So she just said, “Are you sure?”

“Abso-bloody-lutely.” This smile was one of his specials – starting in his eyes, barely touching his lips.

She leaned over, said, “Okay. But I should clarify again that despite context this isn't gratitude,” and kissed that smile, trying to enjoy its amusement and ease in a more intimate way.

He kissed back with enthusiasm. Of course they'd had a long (if thankfully Hack-free) day of talking to other people and making travel-and-killing arrangements via telephone with Gunn (because Wesley had pled a previous engagement with a charter-boat captain, which seemed odd) and the occasional awkward nodding encounter with Xander who was building Dawn a bookcase for her bedroom, and then catching the short flight to L.A.... Well, there hadn't been nearly enough kissing. She'd grown addicted to it in just two days.

Only the flight attendant's arrival with glasses of champagne and copies of The Times was enough to separate them, and Anya could still taste him despite the champagne.

They did the seatbelt thing, and then Rupert made a ritual of changing his watch to London-time. With his big hands working the small stem: “Eight hours' difference,” he told her, “So it's--”

“Almost midnight in England. I've been calling you for months, Rupert, I know about time zones.” She paid attention to her own watch, her head bent, until she felt him pull back her hair and gently kiss behind her ear. She grinned to herself. “Apology for condescension accepted, honey.”

They held hands until take-off. She'd already told him that flying made her slightly nervous -- “It's not like teleportation, at least I could control that”-- and he had promised to talk her through the frightening part. So now he murmured comforting things about London and his love for the river, and how they'd first have to go to his rooms in what was like a Watcher version of an English college in order to pick up a few things, and how he was still trying to figure out where the bloody hell was the safe space Lorne had suggested he find, he'd no sodding idea, and then...

Beneath them the plane gathered itself, its engines roaring like a demon, and they were speeding down the runway. Then beneath them was a shudder, and then air, and she could see the world falling away as they rose.

The first couple of hours of the flight were easy. She and Rupert played with the entertainment features and discussed in a desultory fashion the remnants of Magic Box business and his own Watcher-stuff. (He wasn't even in the Slayer Division any more, since last year he'd made a forceful case to the whole shebang about how Buffy could handle her own affairs. He and Anya had already had two phone-arguments about why he hadn't told Buffy this key information, but that was Rupert, stubborn as... a very stubborn person.) After he'd finished healing from Willow-pain he'd finished his research into a rare Molluc demon and then written his monograph, so he now was waiting for his next assignment.

“If I don't leave the Council, that is,” he muttered, picking at the napkin under his second glass of champagne, and then changed the subject when she pressed.

But she didn't want to leave it there. She pressed again: “Is that – the whole change of jobs issue -- part of the reason you're seeking sanctuary too?”

He ran his finger around the base of the champagne flute. “Yes. But only part, darling,” he said, so quietly she could barely hear him over the demon-engines.

“We'll find it, honey,” she said for encouragement, and put her hand over his.

He put his free hand on top, so that she was held safe in his grasp. “Yes. We will.”

She still felt uneasy and a little guilt-ridden and frightened about her own future, but this wasn't the time to mention it. So she beamed at him, and then the perky blonde flight attendant (“Candy,” her name was) came by with Rupert's salmon and her pasta and also the white wine Anya'd chosen, and they were too busy eating and drinking and laughing to indulge nerves.

When she went to the bathroom after their supper, she overheard Candy and another flight attendant just behind the first-class cabin's curtain -- “such a cute couple, even if a little May-December, right? And he's a handsome man, I certainly understand why she's all over him.”

Anya stuck her head through the curtain, at which point the flight attendants went into fluster-and-jumpiness. She said brightly, “Talking about us? Rupert really is ruggedly handsome, isn't he? But the thing is, I'm a lot older than I look. Really!”

And when she was sitting on the toilet, she smiled at herself in the small bathroom mirror. Gods, it was great not to have to pretend to be an ordinary twenty-one-year-old any more. She knew that Rupert could handle a thousand years' plus age-difference, he was simply that kind of man.

When she went back to her seat, Rupert was just pushing back his chair. He'd already taken off his shoes and pulled the shade down – it was still light outside, they were flying over the parts of the world where summer sun didn't set – and their little row had gone dark. He looked up. “There you are, darling. Ready for some sleep?”

“Yep,” she said. Just the mention of sleep had recalled her exhaustion. She felt heavy enough to fall through the floor of the plane, crash into the ice below, or was it tundra-- But he smiled at her, and she didn't fall except into her chair.

They slipped into sleep looking at each other, their hands linked on the place their chairs met. Her sleep was dreamless.

It was six hours later when she woke up. Only two and a half hours to go until London.

Rupert woke up when she did. He let go of her, stretched luxuriously and long, and said in a sleep-husky voice, “Christ, I needed that.”

She appreciated the sound, and the look of him, rumpled and bed-headed and slightly stubbly. And -- “I also appreciate your forethought in getting business-class. Nice seats!”

“Nice seats, yes,” he murmured.

It had to be her imagination that he palmed her bottom when she got up to go to the bathroom again. Or, now that she thought about it in terms of sexual frustration (his as well as hers), it had to be not her imagination.

After they both freshened up (and he shaved, regrettably), they spent the rest of the flight reading and drinking tea. He muttered things under his breath about the Prolegomena's incomplete spells and bloody transcendental whatsit, and wrote things down in his nice neat script in his notebook. She read Death 'twixt Wind and Water, and scribbled onto a spare napkin a rough schematic of the windmill location for the murder, and made little arrows for suspects--

Until Rupert stopped writing and picked up her book. “Hey! I was referring to that!” she said indignantly. “I'd think Mr Research would understand the sacred nature of--”

“Stop it,” he said absently. Then, less absently: “Anya. Anya, this book is by Harriet Vane.”

“Yes. It says so right on the cover. 'A Robert Templeton mystery, by the Golden Age Mistress of Murder, Harriet Vane.'”

“No, but... Harriet Vane. Which means....” He trailed off, the better to let one of those incredibly mischievous grins illuminate his face. “Do you know, I just had the most stonking idea.”

“We're going to stay in a windmill?”

He laughed, a cheerful deep-in-his-throat sound. “I'm not going to tell you. You'll find out soon enough.”

This kind of Rupert-y teasing torture deserved retribution, she felt, but at that moment the captain's voice came through the PA. “We're now beginning our final descent into London Heathrow. Now beginning our final descent.”

Beneath them came a shudder and a demon-roar – the wheels being released, she told herself.

Below, the world was rushing up to find them.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matters pertaining to London, distant relations named Wimsey, the return of the Hack, and a surprise in a car park.

“So what _is_ this 'stonking'--” Anya made the air-quotes, which was tricky since she was carrying her baggage-- “idea of yours?”

“That's the fifth time you've asked me that,” Rupert said, with a sidelong smile.

“Let me guess. This is the fifth time you're not going to answer, because your fondest desire is to drive me crazy?”

“I wouldn't say that.” He smiled full-on, which was almost as annoying as it was unbelievably attractive. But he also put his arm around her, saving her from another stampeding mini-herd of tourists escaping from the Heathrow Express train they were about to enter, so she decided not to complain this one time.

Once they were aboard the train – which wasn't too full, really, considering it was a soft not-quite-sunny noon here -- and in their seats, he said, “I can't really tell you, as I don't know if it's possible yet. Actually, let me just, er, ring someone, I'll go, um, next car....”

He was already halfway out of his aisle seat, his mobile humming to life.

“I don't much like surprises these days,” she said, but she didn't think he heard her.

As the train jolted into motion, with a calm voice overhead announcing they were on the way to London Paddington, no stops, Anya looked out the window. She hadn't been to this country in decades, since before Rupert was alive. England in this _particular_ July looked different yet fundamentally the same: intensely, vividly green (at least, what she could see of it that wasn't concrete). Nothing like the desert California could be. Arashmaharr had been desert, too.

She didn't see any assassins at the moment, either. Small blessings.

She wrapped her arms around herself and gazed out at speed-blurred landscape until Rupert came back. He announced his return by kissing her on top of her head. “Right then. I've got things in hand, and I'll tell you where we're going when we actually, er, receive the keys. Just to be safe...so to speak.” He dropped down beside her and unwound her enough to take her hand. “I promise it won't be a surprise.”

He looked oddly boyish in this cool English light, she thought. She'd never seen him without the weight of the California desert. Maybe he needed water in the air to feel at home.

“You're glad to be back in England, aren't you,” she said.

He considered this in silence for a moment – so long, in fact, that she was about to turn back to the window –but finally he said, “Yes. No. It's... more of a sanctuary than Sunnydale, I'd say. But we need to go, er, further in. Not there yet.”

When she looked up at him, he was smiling almost to himself. The expression was hopeful and sad at the same time, and she could feel the same two emotions uncurling inside herself – which could also be motion sickness, but she didn't think so.

She said, “I get that. But are you ever going to tell me when we're there?”

He made a sort of unexpected gurgle of amusement. Boyish, she thought again. Grinning, he stretched his long legs out into the dead space under the world's tiniest table, which jutted out from the wall in front of them. “I do think, Anya darling,” he said in his smoothest, most English voice, “that you'll know as well as I will when we arrive.”

“But only if I know beforehand where we're going,” she pointed out.

He gurgled again before saying, “Right. Before we go to my rooms, well, first we're going to see a, um...” He closed his eyes and seemed to be counting something, before he continued, “Second cousin. Possibly once removed, I've never... At any rate, a distant relation of mine from the posh branch of the family, on my mother's side.”

“Posh branch?” She assumed this didn't have anything to do with the Spice Girls, a semi-stupid if female-powered pop group which she believed had broken up.

“Well, you see, my family... I mean, now that my parents are gone, _I_ own a small house in Westbury. Devon, right, my father's county? It's leased to Maud Harkness's coven now, it's where Willow's staying. _Her_ sanctuary... But this distant branch on the maternal side – well, they own half their bloody county and a quarter of another. Titles and everything.”

“And does the second cousin have a title?”

“A minor one: he's the youngest son of a Duke. But he works as a copper – Superintendent, actually -- and we're going to New Scotland Yard to meet him and get the key to where we're going.”

They were getting closer to Paddington, she could feel it. The green world was still there, but hidden by buildings and people, and something was wrong somewhere... She chose another question to focus on. “Okay. But, honey, what does this have to do with the author of my book?”

“Er, Harriet Vane was his mother.” He considered again, like he was flipping through one of his outmoded card-catalogues of facts. “She always published under her maiden name, I believe. Lady Peter Wimsey she was when she married, however, and then, untimely death in the family and her husband was heir, and well... at any rate, she was the Duchess of Denver for the last twenty-five years of her life.” He smiled at her. “You see? Weaving connections, just as the Ways of Refuge teach us.”

“Oh, good _grief_.” Which was a meaningless thing to say, but nevertheless expressed...something. She needed to express a whole bunch of feelings.

The calm, disembodied voice came from overhead, “You are approaching Paddington Station, the terminus of this journey.”

"Terminus, ha!" she said under her breath.

But Rupert just smiled wider, and handed her bag to her so they could get out of the train more easily. “Terminus, ha,” he agreed.

Their black cab took them through a huge uprising of green – Hyde Park and/or Kensington Gardens, she thought, it was hard to figure out where the border was. Maybe she and Rupert were riding on the border even now.

From there they whizzed past an arch for Wellington -- “wars and dead people everywhere,” Anya said, and Rupert repeated the phrase in a minor key-- and more park, and Buckingham Palace, and then into--

“Westminster,” the cabbie said loudly. “The Metropolitan Force, God help us all.”

A pale, silver-haired, aging man, beautifully dressed, was lounging against the steel building, right underneath the revolving New Scotland Yard sign. Anya got an immediate impression of nose (big and beaky) and hands that seemed like they should be holding a cigarette instead of an Evening Standard. He looked up at their cab's approach, and smiled.

He had to be more than ten years older than Rupert, but boy, that smile was _deadly,_ and also, still hot. Not as hot as Rupert's, however.

“Wait here, please,” Rupert said to the cabbie, and then pulled her out of the cab after him. “Paul, hullo!”

“Hullo, Ripper. Killed any extra-dimensional beasties lately?” the man said kindly. He and Rupert shook hands in a very English way, abrupt but affectionate, before the man turned his gaze to her. “Ah, so this is your truth-teller.”

“What?” Anya began.

Rupert coughed, said hurriedly to her, “I'll explain later,” then, “This is Lord Paul Wimsey, also known as Chief Superintendent Wimsey of the Yard, also known as the bloke who broke my arm with a cricket ball when I was twelve. Paul, this is my partner Anya Jenkins.”

"Anya the truth-teller," Lord, Superintendent, whatever, Paul repeated. He took her extended hand in a warm double-handed sandwich. “It's something m' father always said about my mother. A good thing indeed.”

“Well, truth is I'm a little confused and dizzy, but hi, it's nice to meet you.”

He grinned at her, a fleeting wow of a grin, then let her go. “Yes, now to business. Rupert, I spoke to Bredon and he said Talboys was in fact empty at the moment and we'd be happy to lend it. So....” While he dug around in his interior jacket pocket, he said, “It's a fine place of refuge. M'family's country retreat until Father inherited 'The Enormous Pile'-- along with all the rest of it, of course.”

“I've never been to Talboys, have I?” Rupert said, although she thought he already knew the answer-- Lorne had advised them to go somewhere new to them both.

“No, you're too young. Father was Denver by the time your lot came to visit.” Paul brought out a small ring of keys and a sealed envelope. “Keys to the castle, and directions and what not. Don't open the envelope until you're on the North Road.”

After he gave the treasures to Rupert, he made an apologetic gesture. “Right, sorry to run off, but a rather big murder case is imploding – Not like your apocalypses and what not, of course, Ripper.”

“Stop it.” Rupert half-smiled. “My best to Bella and the children, by the way.”

“The youngest 'child' is well past thirty, it's the most lowering feeling. But I will give them your good wishes, and I'll talk to you both after you emerge from your retreat.” Paul smiled at Anya, then darted forward to give her cheek a swift, bay-rum-scented brush with his lips. “I've _lots_ of good stories about Ripper. Share them later -- ammunition for months, m' dear.”

“No, no, no.” Rupert firmly steered her back toward the cab. Over his shoulder: “Thanks, mate, I'll clear out another nest of Boazz for you and the family in return.”

“We hope the foul Boazz never return, you idiot. But don't worry about it. And be safe!”

After Anya was pushed (ungracefully) into the cab, she looked back. The glass doors were already closing behind Paul. She felt, um... well, Rupert seemed somehow _larger_ in England, as well as more boyish. And the things he said: “Truth-teller?”

“Yes, I did say that to Paul. Because you are, darling. One of the things that make you extraordinary.” Rupert smiled at her, then leaned forward to the cabbie. “Survey House, Woburn Square, please.”

“And Boazz?” Nasty things, ankle-biters which grew to blood-suckers --

“'s a portal at Denver, so periodically the things arrive to wreak havoc. That's how my family grew close to theirs, actually. Dad was the, um, exterminator, and then I took over. Never mind.”

As the cab sped forward, he kissed her meditatively, deeply. He tasted still of the peppermint they'd shared when they got off the plane, his hands slid up and down her back, and the world was all green under diesel and noise and weirdness.

That taste and feel of him stayed with her through the ride, through her increasing sense of drift and dislocation. Despite her happiness with him something seemed askew, like someone had left a door open through which a dark shape was slipping...

“Rupert,” she said as they crossed into Bloomsbury, “Do you get a sense of increasing, um, wrongness?”

“No.” His brow creased in new worry, he pushed a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. “What is it?”

“If I knew that, I'd be a happier woman.”

“It is my fondest desire to make you a happier woman,” he murmured, but then they slid in front of a big grey nineteenth-century building in the middle of a row of buildings, and he looked away. “Ah, here we are. We'll just go in, collect a few things, and then I'll beat up my friend Robson to get my car back and we'll be off.”

“Beat up your friend? Is this an England thing?” she said, leaping out of the car after him. But he was paying the cabbie and hauling their bags out of the trunk, or rather, boot. Different place, different words.

She looked around. The Square opposite was small, but fully leafed and grassed. Something was moving behind one of the big benches, but... no, looked like nothing. Closer to her, on either side of Survey House, were openings in the buildings –- oh, parking garages. Car parks. Whatever.

She remembered her premonition-equivalent in the Tropicana parking garage – but her itchy sensation of wrongness wasn't the same. It was more like... like someone had been blown up from the inside, like all their skin was on backwards, or... something. Weird.

"Ready, darling?"

“Ready, honey,” she said, and re-balanced herself to take his arm. Together they turned--

Just as the deep, unfunny clown-honk of the above-Average Hack rang out, closely followed by the above-Average Hack himself, strolling out of one of the two garages, smile out, knife out. “Hey youuuuu,” he sang, “We know where you liiiive.”

She and Rupert dropped their luggage at the same time. No swords or knives of their own, unfortunately, due to airline security measures which sure didn't make her or _Rupert_ more secure, but she did have some potion left. She rooted in her purse for the bottle.

Rupert, meanwhile, held out his left hand – potionless – and shouted the fourth-wall incantation. Light green sparks flew in the general direction of the assassin.

The Hack stumbled, then looked up from under his eyelashes and grinned. “Big man, big man, you're so funny! You're killin' me! Or the other way around, I guess.”

The knife was so close now, almost to Rupert--

Bottle was finally open. She wet her fingers, then stepped in front of Rupert and got his fingers too – then, what the hell, threw the rest of the potion at the Hack's face. She was close enough to smell his sulphurous breath.

The potion got him right in the eyes. “'I'm melting, melting!'” he cried in the manner of the Wicked Witch of the West, laughing even as his skin hissed with the burn. “'Who ever thought a little girl like you would destroy my beautiful wickedness?'”

The knife kept coming. Its tip caught the side of her neck, summoning blood even as the clown-horn honked.

But Rupert pulled her back into his arms, linked hands with hers, and then pointed their fingers toward the Hack. “In the name of St Oscar, don't break the fourth wall!” they shouted again, in surprising unison, and poked the above-Average Hack right in the chest.

Green fire lit in their hands, leapt into the London day, swirled around the assassin's body. He froze, and then faded – his red-lipped smile the last thing to go, while his voice echoed around the Square. “Don't think you're saaaaafe, kiddywinks, 'cause you're not!”

“Anya! Christ, are you all right?” Rupert spun her around in his arms. He was shaking, she wondered if he was feeling sick again after such strong magics, but then he touched just outside the wound and she had to concentrate on not screaming.

“Giles! Giles, what the bloody hell!” came a man's voice.

Two people charged out of Survey House. Anya took a second to look at them: a man, pale, slightly puffy, middle-aged; also middle-aged, a Black woman carrying a big-ass sword and looking twice as fierce as any Slayer.

Then Anya rested her head on Rupert's chest. “Honey, I'll be fine as soon as you stop poking at the blood,” she said faintly. “But are you okay?”

“Yes, mostly. Let's get you inside and patch you up.” His hands still shook. But he said cheerfully enough, “Where were you two when we needed help, eh?”

“Didn't think you needed too much help, old man,” the woman said in a West Indian accent. She smiled at Anya, even as she picked up Anya's bag. “Hullo there, Ms Jenkins, I'm Kincaid. Another Watcher, yes? Giles put me in charge of getting your weapons and warding materials ready.”

“And I'm Robson,” the puffy man said, picking up Rupert's stuff. “Responsibilities -- provisions and gassing up the getaway vehicle.”

“Shut it, Robson,” Rupert and Kincaid said in weary, not-going-to-do-any-good-to-complain voices.

Somehow they'd crossed the threshold by now, into the cool, soft gloom of a foyer. “Thank you,” Anya said, trying to orient herself. “Where are we going now?”

“Just up this staircase,” Rupert said. “Thank you both, I'll check in before we leave.”

“We'll be here,” Kincaid said, and stepped on Robson's foot when he tried to say something.

Two flights of stairs. Cool, soft gloom, but fresh air somewhere. A strong oak door, Rupert rattling keys, and then she was inside another green-painted haven, like being inside a forest full of books. She sank onto a convenient couch, and put her hand up to her neck.

“Don't touch it. Let me clean it first,” he said in a masterful manner, before disappearing through another door.

She blinked and looked around. This was his living area; she could see a small galley kitchen and another open door to what looked like a tiny sleeping space. Books everywhere, yes. Forest-green walls, yes, with white-framed windows. And on that one wall, separate from the framed snapshots of Scoobies--

“Honey,” she said when he walked back in, “you have a picture of me on your wall.”

“Yes.” He sat down beside her and with a steady hand began to dab at her neck with a wet cloth. It _hurt_ , hurt like anything. He winced as if _he_ were the one being tortured with peroxide, but said in a soothing voice, “I've had it there since... oh, what, November?”

“When you came back here alone?”

He inspected her wound and frowned. “Yes, that'll have to do. And yes, when I came back here alone.”

She needed to think about this. She needed to arrange everything in her mind like a ledger-book: when he might have begun to care for her, when she had fallen for him (because she was emotionally attached for real, and it was all hopeful and sad, and she didn't know why). But she didn't have time for that.

Instead she caught his face in her hands and just looked at him. The forest-green of the room made his eyes seem green, too. “Thank you, Rupert. Honey,” she said, and she kissed him.

“Thank you, Anya,” he said softly.

She kissed him again. This one was more serious, deeper and wetter, and she felt his hand on her thigh, dipping to the inside, sliding up to where she could promise more wetness--

Thud. Something dropped outside his door, and Robson said “Oh bloody hell” and Kincaid said “You're a damn mess, Mark, you're just a crazy damn _mess,_ ” and Anya and Giles stopped kissing and started laughing. Better than crying, anyway.

“Sod it, let's go to Talboys,” Rupert whispered, once he'd caught his breath.

“Okay, let's.”

But after they'd shuffled bags, used the toilet (separately), said goodbye to Kincaid and Robson on the steps, and went outside, she had that bad premonition-feeling again. It was stronger now, and yes, blown up from the inside, expanding in a good-bad way that hurt worse than her scratched neck. It came from the open dark just there, where they were going--

“Rupert, there's something in the Watchers' parking garage,” she said.

“What?”

“I don't know what, but--”

A familiar, long-coated, lean figure prowled into a lighter patch of shadow and raised his hands as if in surrender. He said shakily, “H'lo, Anya. Rupes. Er, I know I don't deserve it, but I need a spot of help.”

“Spike!” Anya said. "What's happened to you?"

And Rupert said in a voice that thundered, “For fuck's sake, don't tell me this berk's our last sodding thread.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of connections, a country cottage, love, an antique monocle, and a surprise guest. With coffee.

This interview process was taking too long.

Anya was as emotionally attached to Rupert as it was possible for one woman (former vengeance demon) to be, but --“Honey, it might help Spike's story-telling abilities if you appeared less likely to rip off his head if he so much as moved wrong.”

“No guarantees I won't,” Rupert muttered, but he moved from his looming-and-glaring post against the wall to take the desk chair. Which, since it was closer to poor gaunt Spike's seat on the sofa, might not be an improvement.

Once she and Rupert had smuggled Spike through the sunlight and up here to his Survey House rooms -- “retracing steps,” Rupert had growled as they climbed the stairs, and “confronting past selves,” she'd said more cheerfully – this particular problem had become clear. Rupert had heard something bad about what had driven Spike from Sunnydale, and he wasn't inclined to be charitable.

Anya didn't know what Spike might have done. But she knew somehow, sure as she'd once known any person who needed vengeance, that he needed to be helped. If only he weren't so _difficult_. So... _Spike._

She counted to five in two demon-languages before saying, “Okay, Spike. We've established that you're really different --”

“So are you, petal.” He looked up from his close study of his hands. “Smell different.”

“I've renounced vengeance,” she said briskly. “I just don't know how it's affected me, although changed body chemistry makes sense. But we're not talking about that right now. You're different in some unspecified way which is clear to even an insensitive person like me--”

“Stop calling yourself that,” Rupert said, and fleetingly caressed her shoulder.

“What now?” Spike cocked his head. The move had been very attractive when she was drunk and heartbroken; it was significantly less so now, when she had places to go and refuge to find. “You and the old man have a... thing going on?”

“Rupert and I would be having much more of a thing and in a secluded location if you'd get to the damn _point._ Different how, need a favour what?” she said, at the end of her patience.

Spike sort of... curled in on himself, hiding.

She blinked. She recognized the move from her own time right after she'd talked to D'Hoffryn. “Oh my God, you didn't... I mean, you can't renounce vampirism, can you? But...”

Spike said, tired, “Sharp, aren't you, petal? Went to Africa. Got a soul. Choice, not curse.”

Without speaking Rupert got up from his chair and went out his door.

Anya felt hot tears rising – she didn't know if Rupert was remembering the time Spike had lied to get something from the Scoobies, or worse, remembering that other vampire with a soul, which had led to a whole lot of painful things. She said as evenly as she could, “That's great, Spike! Probably. Now I'll go get Rupert, and we'll come back and help you. Just stay there and... don't steal anything.”

He laughed a shadow of his old confident laugh. “Soul doesn't really encourage theft, right?” Then, as she went to the door, “Tell me – are you with Rupes for vengeance?”

Rupert and vengeance... oh, on Xander. Spike _had_ been gone for months. “No, Xander and I have had the postmortem on our deceased relationship. I'm with Rupert for love.”

When Spike smiled this time, she finally could see the soul – a spark he hadn't had, kindness that went deeper than his occasional gestures of consideration in Sunnydale. “Well, good. Good for you, Anya. And good for old Rupes.”

It wasn't exactly hard to find said Rupert, since he was sitting on the top step of the staircase, staring into the gloomy Watchery empty space. She sat down beside him, chewed her lip briefly in thought, then picked up the hand Angelus had hurt and brought it to her cheek.

He let out a breath like he was releasing old pain. “You think he's telling the truth?” he asked, without looking at her.

“Yep.” She kissed the finger that still had a funny bump in it. Torture just... stayed in the bones, she knew to her cost.

“Anya, darling,” Rupert whispered in a razor-shredded voice, and she put her head against his shoulder and let the tears for him spill over where he couldn't see.

But he caught her chin, and drank a tear from her cheek, and then kissed her until she couldn't breathe. She thought for a second she'd fall down the stairs, or no, melt, a waterfall down the old oaken steps.

She wrapped her hands in Rupert's already wrinkled shirt and held on.

When he raised his head, he let out another breath of pain, then took an easier one. “Right, then. Let's deal with that bloody thread.”

Spike was still there, a vampire-statue, when they went back into Rupert's rooms. He watched as Rupert pulled his desk chair close to the sofa, as Rupert took out his cellphone and held it in both hands.

“What kind of help do you seek, Spike?” Rupert said.

“I don't know. I'm out of dosh...and the _voices_ , bloody hell, the voices in my head...” Spike covered his eyes – kind of stupid, to think you couldn't be seen when you couldn't see, but Anya understood. “I'd learnt this was Watcher territory, thought you... I don't know what I thought.”

Rupert nodded, as if this answered some hidden question he hadn't asked. “You need sanctuary.”

“In a word.” Spike tried to laugh, but failed.

Rupert nodded again. “I – I mean, _we_ \--” He gave Anya one of his sidelong glances -- “We can do two things for you. First, we'll call Buffy.”

“No!”

“We'll call Buffy,” Rupert said again, overriding Spike's protest, “because I strongly suspect she needs to know, and because I even more strongly suspect that you'll need to ... confront your old self.”

“Ways of Refuge, number one recommendation,” Anya said helpfully.

Rupert smiled at her. “Exactly. The second thing I'll do, Spike, is arrange for you to spend some time in Westbury with some friends of mine.”

“Witches,” she said. “White magic, of course, healing energies and Gaia and blah de blah.”

“White-magic witches?” Spike said. “You people trying to hurt me or what?”

“The latter, obviously.” Anya beamed. “It's perfect! Because you're one of the only people Willow didn't try to kill when she went all black-veined world-destroyer, she can take care of you without getting all teary! It'll be really good for her. And you, of course.”

“Do what now?” Spike said blankly.

“Quite right, Anya. Kill two Garkas with one stone,” Rupert said, his mouth twitching like a smile was about to pounce. “If you'll excuse me, I've a few calls to make--”

This time when Rupert went out, Anya didn't follow him. Instead she glanced up at the wall of photos: Scoobies on one side; her photograph framed by itself, put where the lamplight could hit it. They'd had to close the curtains because of Spike's sun issues, of course.

Spike looked at the Scoobies' pictures and then bowed his head. Anya thought he didn't want photo-Buffy looking at him, maybe. Too bad it wasn't going to work that way in the end.

The arrangements for Spike's sanctuary came together with relative ease, however. Rupert didn't report the conversation with Buffy beyond a terse, “She'll want to be informed how you're doing, and when you leave Westbury,” which made Spike look in passing like he'd been smushed by a bus. After phone consultation Willow and Maud Harkness agreed to teleport from Devon to get Spike, and Kincaid and Robson volunteered to drive Spike and the witch-escort team back to the west, although Anya didn't know who was going to be protecting whom.

She and Rupert went out by themselves to the front steps of Survey House to wait for the coven representatives' arrival. They sat down on the stone, linked hands, and looked out at the Hack-free Woburn Square. The light had changed since they'd got there, more gold through green. Not long til summer sunset.

She said, “Rupert, are you sure you don't want to take Spike to Westbury yourself?”

“Positive.” He'd been gazing at the sunlight as if it were gloomy empty space, but when he smiled at her, he looked fine. “Thing is... well, two things, really. I'm carrying too much baggage about Spike at the moment, 's better if someone else takes care of him to begin with. You and I, after Talboys, er... then we'll see.” He pulled her into him until they were one intertwined unit. “We have to finish our journey first, however.”

They were still holding each other when the air over the pavement changed, shimmered, thickened – and there stood Willow and Maud Harkness, a short, round, pleasant-looking woman with spiky purple hair.

Rupert didn't quite let go of Anya even when he eased back. “Hullo, hullo! Thank you for coming, Willow, Maud -- any difficulties?”

“Smooth as silk,” Maud said, coming toward them. “Hullo, Giles. And you're Anya, of course.” She took Anya's hands, turned them over, and inspected them in a motherly-soothsayer way. “Yes indeed, you're Anya the seeker, the teller of truth. Giles has told me about you.”

When Willow made a sound, Anya glanced over. They hadn't seen each other since right after the world-ending attempt, and Willow had been pretty much tearful and uncommunicative at that point. “Hi,” Anya said generally. She didn't trust herself to say more. She, like Rupert, still had some baggage.

Willow gave a little wave. She did look better than months earlier, however – more Willow-y, less Dark Goddess.

Maud shifted hold so that she was holding onto Rupert as well as Anya. “You two have done your travelling. You have the knowledge you sought. Now it's time for you to find your refuge and be still.”

“We very much want to, Maud,” Rupert said. He smiled at Willow, who smiled back. “But first we have to get you lot sorted.”

This didn't take too long, thankfully. Robson – who was apparently addicted to some programme called Top Gear– had his sports-utility vehicle ever-ready, and Kincaid was also packed and prepared to be the cool, competent Watcher in the party. Spike startled at first sight of Willow, and she startled back – stupid since they'd known they were seeing each other -- but they touched hands awkwardly and then touched again, and everybody relaxed. Connections well-made, Anya thought.

As Anya and Rupert waved off the Westbury-bound travellers, they both sighed at the same time. When the SUV disappeared around the corner, Anya said, “Now?”

“I bloody well hope so,” Rupert said before catching up her hair and kissing the nape of her bare neck. “The good thing, darling, is that Hertfordshire is a good deal closer to London than it once was. I'm ready to just....”

“To just stop. Me too,” Anya said, pleasantly humming with desire. “Also, to have sex.”

He laughed, and murmured something she couldn't hear. He was supposed to tell her something tonight, wasn't he? Wait, she said to herself.

The light was all falling gold now.

When they pulled out of the parking garage at last, Rupert put on a CD that he said reminded him of trips to the country long ago – it was classical but light, sadness underneath surface merriment. The first tune was something about larks, Rupert said; Anya said she'd heard it before and liked it, but she didn't know the name. As the music rose and rose, they drove through falling golden, going from concrete to patches of green to the green world which had always been there.

Once they got to the deep green, he asked her to open Paul Wimsey's letter. The directions were very clear: Talboys was near the village of Great Pagford, which looked like it might have done decades earlier. Rupert nodded when he heard that, and sent the car down the next lane. “Yes, I know where we are.”

But Anya was skimming ahead in the letter. “Oh, boy... he's called the caretaker, Violet Ruddle who lives next door, and she'll have aired the house and put some food in the fridge. And, oh Rupert, he said you can raid the family wine-cellar!”

“Bloody hell. _The Wimsey wine-cellar?_ That's.... Christ, that's astonishing.”

“It's a really nice offer. But honestly, I'd rather have you than drink. _Much_ more eager for you,” she said frankly.

When he looked at her across the car, she felt as she'd done the first time he kissed her, as she'd done when he'd kissed her on the staircase. Her body was expanding from the emotion, she was liquefying in every way --

“I couldn't agree more,” he said huskily, and sent the car almost flying over a rise in the road.

On the other side of the rise was Talboys.

A solid, safe house, she thought somewhat dizzily: several centuries old, much-gabled, set in the midst of well-kept gardens. The gate was open for them. “We should go in the back,” she said, looking at Paul's letter. Rupert pulled onto the gravelled drive and took them around to where a light was already shining for them. It was twilight at last.

It didn't take long for them to unload the car, wave back at Violet Ruddle who'd waved from her cottage garden, and ward the doors. Then Anya wandered from kitchen to lounge, turning on lamps and enjoying the beautiful quiet, while Rupert messed around upstairs. Paul's letter had said they could sleep in the master bedroom...

“Anya,” Rupert called from upstairs. “Do you need to, er, change or anything?”

She looked down at her travel-crumpled self. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

So she went up the funny back stairs to the bathroom, and took a quick shower. Then, clean and freshly antiseptic-creamed on her wound and wrapped in a towel, she went up the next half-flight of stairs to the lamplit master bedroom. It was an old space, with silver-framed family photographs on the mantel and a four-poster bed she thought had to have been there since Queen Elizabeth (the first one). Her bag rested on a chair, Rupert's on another, but he wasn't around.

She felt sort of as if she'd fallen into a chronology-machine, passing through layers of times and memories until she'd come to the only refuge in a millenium of pain. But that was crazy talk.

After she'd put on her nightshirt and replaced the towel in the bathroom, she went downstairs. Still no Rupert --until she went into the kitchen. What she assumed was the cellar door was open to the dark, she heard footsteps. “Honey?”

“Be right there.” He emerged, carrying a bottle of champagne. He'd changed too, into a loose white shirt and a pair of khakis, and he'd forgotten or mislaid his shoes. The mere sight of him, gilt-edged in the lamplight like the finest securities, oh gods....

“Does it feel to you like the world just stopped?” she whispered.

He set the champagne and his glasses carefully on a counter. Only then did he come to her, take her hands, smile. “Yes.”

She took a step closer. He smelled like the forest. “So, since we've established I want you more than good champagne...”

His fingers tightened on hers. “Anya. Anya darling, since we're here... may I tell you why I went to Sunnydale--” together they counted back -- “right, four days ago? Give or take several time zones.”

“I don't know, honey. Is it going to be one of your long exposition-speeches?”

He made that incredibly attractive boyish gurgle of amusement. “No, it's not.” Without warning he changed his hold on her and lifted her onto the long scrubbed table in the centre of the room. Her legs spread, her shirt pooling around her upper thighs, and he did one of those indistinguishable murmurs and then stepped into the open space. He was hot under the cotton, and getting hard, and _right there_.

Tonight she wasn't going to need foreplay. “Rupert, please--”

“Wait. Look at me.” When she obeyed, he was flushed and smiling – and he met her gaze. Gods, the man's eyes... “When I left Sunnydale in November, after Willow's spell...on the flight back to London I kept thinking about two things. Your mouth.” He brushed her lips. “And what you'd said to me, er, _before_ the spell. You told me--”

"I told you, 'Not that I want you to go.' And I meant it, but, Rupert, I didn't know how much."

“Yes. Dear God, Anya, it shook me so badly. Because, well, I'm rather slow about these things. I just... there you _were_ , you see. Anya, beautiful and smart and strong, odd and dangerous and so sweet. What I'd always wanted. What I couldn't have.”

She shuddered out a longing breath. “And see, I slept on the couch for three nights after you left, because that whole day we lost our memories and woke up together, I kept thinking, 'This man is just what I want. Yes, this man is my guy, and he's handsome and smart and perhaps a little testy and overly fond of British words but so good, and...' And then the spell broke and I was with Xander, and I wanted to run to you but I'd promised. I'd _promised_.”

“Christ, Anya.” His weight bore her back onto the table, his shirt and hers somehow came off, and then he was there, settling himself in the saddle of her wide-open hips, hard and present. The slight roughness of the khakis against her, and then the wild precision of his mouth and tongue when he kissed her, like he knew where he wanted to go, how deep he wanted to be. She wanted him there too.

She wrapped her legs around his broad back, and he made another noise deep in his throat and thrust against her. She was getting him wet, she feared. “Honey,” she said, “inside not out this time?”

“Yes. Protection?”

“Not necessary – oh _God_ you feel good.” He'd hit the sweet spot that time, oh yes.

"Right. Darling, darling." He lifted up just a little, then used the new angle to push her further onto the table. The friction, the pressure, perfect... then he lifted up further, and together they worked at his buttons and zipper, together they shoved his khakis all the way off. Like her, he'd thoughtfully forgot his underwear.

Such a nicely shaped hard cock, just right for her hands, and connected to a solid, fit, slightly padded body she couldn't get enough of--

Then she found herself flat on her back again, with Rupert poised right there. “Darling, two quick things,” he said hoarsely.

“Oh my God honey do you ever stop the exposition?” She tried to pull him in with only her muscles and her will.

He resisted, laughing just a little. “First thing. I like to drive in bed, that all right with you?”

“Yes yes yes. Just _drive_ already.”

With one fast, expert move he pinned her arms above her head, and his cock slid in, just enough to torment her. “Second thing. The reason I went to Sunnydale four days ago, well...Anya darling, I'm courting you.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I'm courting you,” he said huskily, and then his mouth captured hers and he was inside far as he could go, and she couldn't keep her eyes open, the lamplight was too strong.

She came for the first time a few strokes later – he'd perfected a certain effective twist of the hips – but he kept going. It was Rupert and lamplight and slickening oak against her back, everything was wet and hot and she was travelling through pleasure and time and love even though his weight kept her there, they travelled together, and...

The second orgasm took her by surprise, as if she'd crested a rise and then fallen in the best way. She said his name and he said “Anya, love,” and then shuddered and cried out.

They lay there on the table for a moment or two, still entwined. Then she couldn't help herself – she began to lick the salty water from below his Adam's apple, sent her tongue journeying along his collarbone. “Mmmm,” she said indistinctly. “Thank you, honey, I feel so much better.”

“So do I,” he said, laughing deep in his chest. “Too heavy?”

“Not just now.” She kept him there, moving her legs to hold him better. “Um, Rupert, can you repeat what you said? You know, before?”

He raised up on his elbows, played with her sweat-damp hair, smiled. “I said I'm courting you.”

She hadn't thought she could feel warmer. “But you... I mean, it makes me happy to hear that, but you know you don't have to, right?”

“Yes, I do.” This time when he kissed her, it was soft and not particularly sexual. It was ... deep emotional attachment.

They had to get up eventually, her legs were cramping. She cleaned off the table thoroughly while he put together a late supper and opened the champagne, and then they shared a glass or two, stole food off each other's plates, touched each other. They didn't talk much, though. Too tired, too happy.

When they went to bed upstairs, it was so easy. Despite an initial lively argument over who got what side of the bed, they settled the question and then settled into the big four-poster. Anya arranged herself on her right side, and Rupert spooned up behind her. She fell asleep inhaling his scent and the lavender of the sheets.

Hours later, she woke to faint pre-dawn light through the uncurtained open window, to candlelight flickering on the bedside table. Rupert was awake, propped up on an elbow, watching her sleep. “I'm sorry,” she said groggily, “Did I snore or kick you or something?”

“No. Just... time change issues. Happiness. Thinking.” Then he flipped her gently onto her back and curled around her, his head between -- “Very nice breasts, darling. First-rate.” He kissed a curve.

“Glad you like them. Stop by any time.” She threaded her fingers through his hair and began to caress his skull. He made a husky pleased sound, then rubbed his bristly cheek against her.

They lay happily like that, until the morning sound of birds made her say, “What are those? You know, making that insane noise?”

“The birds? Er, larks, I think. Herald of the morn.” He chuckled into her skin. “I believe Romeo and Juliet had a similar conversation. Bloody stupid teenagers in love.”

“It's good neither one of us is a teenager. Less tragedy that way, regardless of Hacks and whatever.”

“Amen,” he said.

Another moment of candlelit hush inside, bird-call sunrise outside, until he said, “Seeing Spike yesterday... I began thinking about all the baggage I'm still trying to unload.”

She smoothed her hand down his back. “I know. Me, too.”

He stirred, rearranged himself, kissed her breast again. Then, quietly, “When I became Buffy's Watcher, I had been taught the Council's way – that Slayers were mere instruments to be used. I knew that couldn't be right, but I'd learnt it better than I thought. I didn't break free in time, I did badly. And now that I know better, I still... I can't be just Buffy's instrument to be used, either. I must find another path.”

She felt old tears begin to rise. Still petting him: “It's so hard. I took on vengeance because there are so many people being hurt every day in every dimension, and when it sort of worked for me that first time, I thought, Okay. Helping. It's a good thing. But I wasn't, and it wasn't.” She swallowed a new salt-water ache. “You, however... do you know how great you've been these past few days? Getting everybody together, making all those Ways of Refuge-type connections?”

“ _We_ made them, darling. Not just me.” Then he moved suddenly, at which she protested, but he was just reaching over to the nightstand beside the bed. Something glittered there in the candlelight, and he picked it up.

It was an old-fashioned monocle: gold circle outside, clarity within.

“This,” he said, “belonged to the Duke of Denver. The last one, Peter Wimsey, I mean, not Bredon the current one. I remember him sitting on the terrace with his Duchess amidst the peacocks, this thing screwed into his eye. He let me look through the glass once or twice.” He handed her the eye-glass. “What do you see?”

The monocle was cool against her skin, much too big for her, but she put it up to her eye anyway. In it Rupert appeared different, but she knew now who he truly was. “I see a very smart, very tough, very caring man,” she said. “Despite how hard it is, despite luggage problems. I see... nothing but goodness.”

He made a funny noise in his throat, then kissed her gently, then put the eye-glass to his own eye. He looked at her for much longer than she had looked at him. Just as she was becoming vulnerable and teary again, he said, “I see a woman who is much better than she knows, who tells me the truth and keeps me honest. I see goodness, too.”

“On the other hand, of course, you need spectacles,” she said, and together they fell together kissing each other and laughing, laughing louder than those stupid larks.

Eventually, after more cuddling, Rupert said, “Christ, I could do with a cup of tea. Want one?”

“I'll come with you,” she said.

Hand in hand, they went downstairs, but on the bottom step Anya was suddenly hit with another wave of... something, an image of prison and dark with a frightening echo underneath. “Honey, do you sense anything? Anything wrong?” she said hesitantly.

“No.” Then he inhaled deeply. “Wait. Wait, do you smell coffee?”

She suddenly didn't want to go in the kitchen – the light didn't look right, she smelled the coffee too. But Rupert caught up a cricket bat from the stand in the hallway, and together they went forward.

Yes, coffee. Lights on. Someone sitting at the kitchen table. Someone big, and robed, and demon-y --

“Good morning,” D'Hoffryn said, and raised his steaming mug to them.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of negotiations and safe spaces.

“You've caused me a great deal of trouble, you know, Anyanka,” D'Hoffryn said genially. With a flutter of robes he kicked one chair, then another, out from the table. “Sit, sit.”

“I don't think so,” Anya said. She'd gone numb the moment she'd seen the vengeance chief, as if she'd been carried back to the Sunnydale of four days ago before Rupert's arrival. The very worst kind of chronology-machine--

And then Rupert's arms came around her from behind, with the cricket bat a secure barrier across her stomach, and a sunbeam shot through the open kitchen window, and she remembered where, when and who she was.

There was no such thing as a safe space. She knew that.

“Who are you, and how did you get through my wards?” Rupert said aggressively.

She tried to recall her best about-to-be-killed manners. “Sorry, honey, I should introduce you. Rupert, this is my former boss D'Hoffryn, Lord of Vengeance, sometime Emperor of Arashmaharr, etcetera etcetera. D'Hoffryn, I guess you know this is Rupert Giles of the Council of Watchers, also co-owner of the Magic Box.” Which led to a horrible thought. Quickly: “And he shouldn't be in trouble in any way, Chief. He's just, um, with me. Please don't hurt him, it's all my fault.”

“It is _not_ \--” Rupert began.

But D'Hoffryn raised a claw. “Quiet, Mr Giles. And, missy, I know exactly whose fault it is. Not only have the Hacks dropped your case, which says a lot, but I've been watching you.”

Anya frowned. Well, she'd been dizzy quite a bit lately... “Were you around somewhere when Rupert and I got on the plane in Los Angeles?”

“Of course.” He sipped his coffee. “One of your acquaintances killed an Average Hack, you personally destroyed a thriving business in trading soul-futures when you helped free that camp Pylean... I needed to check in on you two before you ripped apart half the demon-trade in the Western United States.”

“But at that point we were _leaving_ the Western United States. Anyway, I think 'half the demon-trade' is kind of an exaggeration,” she said. “That's only two examples, and the Hack doesn't count, because that was entirely due to the feral skateboard-boy being feral.”

“Literal Aud, literal Anyanka,” D'Hoffryn said evenly.

“And literal Anya until you kill me. I'm Anya now, you see.” She remembered darkness, the Tropicana and images of prison. “Wait, were you there in Las Vegas as well?And in Woburn Square today? Parking-garage lurking?”

“No. Which brings us to something important.” This time his gesture was a command. “Mr Giles, go ahead and make your tea, then leave. This discussion doesn't concern you.”

“Anya's future concerns me intimately, thank you,” Rupert said – as scary-courteous as he could be, regardless of the fact he was wearing only his khakis -- and his hold on her tightened.

D'Hoffryn narrowed his eyes. “Listen, Watcher, you may have enough magic to send away a Superior Hack, but you don't have enough to take me on.”

“I have little magic, true. But Anya and I cast the repulsion-spell together. We are together,” Rupert said, before she could carefully explain to him that despite how much she appreciated his support, for his own good he shouldn't annoy the Chief.

D'Hoffryn sighed, then took a longer drink from his coffee. When he looked up, Anya thought his mood had altered, though she couldn't tell how. “Oh, please. Yes, missy here apparently has mojo she shouldn't have. However, Mr Giles, that particular instance was you. That was _your_ power.” He pushed his coffee-cup away. “Stupid human -- you've recently carried enormous white magic, the collected light and gifts of a half-dozen witches, and you think it's not going to change you? Not going to call out what you hid for years? You haven't even had a long period of adjustment, comparatively speaking, and here you're shoving Superior assassins back to their dimension with a flick of potion-damp fingers and a mumbled incantation.” Then, to himself, “What is _wrong_ with these people? Whatever happened to logical thinking?”

“Nothing's wrong with Rupert, he's very logical and anyway he generally mutters instead of mumbles,” she said hotly. Then, “Crap. Rudeness, sorry. But anyway, Chief, he's still not part of this contract-discussion regardless of his newfound mage stuff and our partnership in other areas.”

Rupert made one of his indistinguishable sounds, then, “Anya darling, turn around.”

She didn't – she _shouldn't_ turn her back on D'Hoffryn at the moment, she thought – but she did let herself rest against Rupert's warm chest and look up. “What--?”

He kissed her before she could finish her question. It was one of his special ones, deep (despite the awkwardness and height issues) and emotionally attached, and although she should have found it comforting, it just made her want to cry. Then he whispered, “Remember Lilah. Remember Lorne.” Another kiss, gentler this time. “You know, darling.”

She closed her eyes for a second to consider. She _had_ learned a lot on this trip.

“No conferring,” D'Hoffryn said. “I'm doing you a favour by letting you stay, Mr Giles. Although, considering what's going to happen to her, maybe it's vengeance.”

She opened her eyes. The Chief was smiling, genial again.

“I'm not going anywhere, Anya,” Rupert whispered. He sent a shock of magic into her hands, a happy little spark to wake her up. “Haven't finished courting you, for one thing.”

She touched that sparking hand to his cheek. “Thank you, Rupert. Also, I probably should confirm I love you, just in case,” she whispered back. She kissed him again, fleetingly this time, before making him let go – which was rather difficult, he was being stubborn about holding on.

Then, although she was only wearing a half-buttoned nightshirt which wasn't exactly helping to convey business-like dignity, she crossed to the table and sat down in one of the kicked-out chairs. “So, what do you want to tell me about mojo?” she said as briskly as she could.

D'Hoffryn surveyed her. She'd been inspected regularly through a thousand-plus years, but somehow what she remembered was that first day in Sjornjost, the frost-heaved soil under her feet, the chill in her bones.

"Thornton's Hope. That was the first vengeance-work you did," he said now, answering her thoughts. “You found a spell, you altered it, you made it work, and bam, troll.”

“Yes,” she said. She felt that cold here and now, in this summertime kitchen.

He leaned closer. “In our little family of vengeance-demons, you always...well, let's take it from another direction. All these years, Anyanka, how did you know when it was time to wreak vengeance?”

“I'm Anya now,” she said again. “And... and I knew because I sensed the pain, saw the image of it in my head. I usually knew anyway, because of the way human suffering repeats itself. Not a lot of variation in the patterns or signs, you know? But beyond that ... Hey, what does this have to do with mojo anyway?”

Slowly, D'Hoffryn drew her vengeance-amulet out of his robes and placed it on the table between them. It glowed in the sunlight, a living and dark thing at the same time.

He said, “If you're not carrying that, you shouldn't still be able to sense pain or read people in trouble.”

“Well, okay.” She was slightly at a loss. “What does it mean that I did?”

D'Hoffryn frowned everywhere, his horns following his mouth downward.

Rupert said in his scholar's voice, “A thousand years of sensitivity to others' pain might carry over, regardless of existential changes. It's only, er, logical.”

D'Hoffryn's frown deepened. “The Watcher's more intelligent than I thought. I don't like him.”

“I do. I like him more than anyone ever,” she said. “Anyway, does it matter what the mojo is? Because you've been all 'death death death,' Chief, let's just get it over with.”

She reached out for the amulet. With a shrug D'Hoffryn followed suit. Rupert made a disbelieving noise, but she didn't dare look up, she had only one chance--

Her hand touched stone as D'Hoffryn's hand touched stone.

“Angels and ministers of grace, loose the bonds. I wish the demon Anyanka to die,” she said, just as he crushed the amulet.

The world shimmered, suns burning up from inside, geysers exploding in the desert, years crushed in the weight of the fall. It was all pain.

Then Rupert was there, his hand over hers. Together they touched good oak, not stone. “Angels and ministers of grace--”

Oh, right. “Angels and ministers of grace,” she said hurriedly, and together they finished, “Show us the path.”

The world shimmered, sunlight through forest green, world rushing up to meet them, years rising in the exaltation of a hundred larks.

She blinked.

Okay. She was still sitting at the kitchen table here at Talboys, and Rupert's hand was still over hers. The amulet was gone. She felt... well, she felt basically the same, except that she was shaking really, really hard.

“Seven hells and little green birdies, I was afraid you were going to do that.” D'Hoffryn sighed. “Still, it had to play out. Those are the rules.”

“Christ, Anya.” Rupert pulled her out of her chair, then framed her face with his hands. That helped her stop trembling, as did holding on very tightly to his nice strong forearms. “What happened? The way the light changed when you spoke the incantation...”

“ _We_ spoke it,” she said.

D'Hoffryn rustled his robes sourly, then picked up the now empty chain and deposited it in a hidden pocket. “Obviously, Mr Giles, she killed Anyanka, the former self already separated from her by her resignation. Like most spells, to speak is to perform it. 'I wish,' with that little twist...” He squinted at her. “Have you been talking to a lawyer, missy?”

“Not officially,” she managed to say.

She could practically feel Rupert's laughter bubbling up under his serious Watcher-face. He echoed, “No, not officially,” and then smiled at her.

“Hmmm.” D'Hoffryn shrugged again. “Well, no matter. Vengeance has been served, nevertheless. What does it mean to be human, Anya? You'll decay, you'll hurt, and you'll die, your end coming as random and unexpected as the visitation of any Hack. And if Mr Giles' theory is right, you might even be a sensitive now. You'll know where there's pain, and you won't be able to help them.”

Anya gave this a few seconds of thought. “Yes, okay, I'll die. But then the last few days I thought I was going to, anyway.”

D'Hoffryn nodded as if to concede the point.

“As for being able to help people? Sure I will! Not all the time, and not with vengeance-power, but see, Chief, I now have valuable retail experience.”

Rupert sank into the other kicked-out chair, then pulled her down into his lap. “That you do,” he murmured against her ear. “But you have much more than that, darling.”

D'Hoffryn surveyed them with a baleful eye. “Him I _really_ don't like,” he announced. “Don't invite me to your next wedding.”

She felt a sudden insecurity, a shadow turning away from a church door. “Huh. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.”

“No matter,” D'Hoffryn said again. “I'm done, and you're done. I won't say farewell, Anya--”

And before she or Rupert could move, the Chief reached out and dragged a claw across her neck. The sharp tip caught the edge of her wound, opened it back up so that pain could rush to the surface with her blood.

“Happy humanity and death!” he said cheerily, waved with the bloody claw, and then disappeared.

“Anya, for fuck's sake, you're bleeding,” Rupert said. He was already moving, lifting her up, taking her somewhere.

“Well, see, D'Hoffryn just got me with his claw,” she explained woozily. She didn't feel particularly well, now that the excitement was over.

“Thank you, darling, I'd never have guessed,” he said. This was sarcasm, she thought, but she couldn't focus. The light kept changing, sun to shadow to sun, she had to close her eyes – but she felt Rupert's muscles engage as he started up the half-stairs with her.

Careful of the blood on her neck, she kissed his shoulder. He made a funny noise and kept climbing.

The porcelain of the tub was a good chill, she decided when he put her down. Then the water plashing in the bathroom sink was a happy sound. It was okay to open her eyes.

Rupert handed her a damp washcloth. “Here you go.” While she staunched the bleeding – it wasn't that bad, really – he busied himself with getting the antibiotic cream and a bandage. Then he knelt in front of her, brushed aside her hands, and took over the rest of the wound-care himself.

When he was done, he threw everything aside and put his arms around her and rested his head on her lap. His bristly cheek rubbed pleasantly against her bare legs. “Oh God, _God_ , Anya,” he said in a muffled voice. “Please don't frighten me like that again.”

She didn't know how to respond. They were both human, which meant there were no safe spaces... except this connection was good, and warm in the best way. It was the best they could do. Better than best.

So she said, “Thank you, Rupert honey,” and kissed his head, and tightened her hold.

He laughed a little shakily, and kissed her thigh, and tightened his hold. “Anya,” he said softly. “My Anya.”

They held on to each other in silence, with only a kiss or two to mark the movement of time.

However, a middle-aged Watcher's knees did not particularly take to extended contact with a tile floor. They got up in a few minutes, him muttering under his breath, and then he went off to make that tea he said he needed more than oxygen, and after she washed up and brushed her teeth, she went back into the master bedroom.

The larks had stopped singing. Too late in the morning, she guessed. But she could hear Rupert's voice downstairs – on the phone while the kettle boiled, probably, they had a lot of new connections to keep up.

She went over and opened the window, and stood in the breeze, gazing out over the green world. She belonged here now.

When he came back to the bedroom with his two mugs of tea, she looked over her shoulder at him: healthy after so much hurt, tall and broad-shouldered and sturdy, his khakis riding low on his waist, bare feet. His smile went all the way through.

“Gilt-edged, that's what you are,” she said.

“I have no idea what that means, but I'll take it as a compliment. Here you go, darling.” He gave her one of the mugs.

She took a sip. He'd put in too much sugar, he always did. But she sipped again, then put her mug aside and took his away. Before he could complain, she put her hands on his shoulders and leapt up. He caught her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist and held on.

“The Prolegomena teaches that 'The weaving together of destinies is a difficult endeavour in the best of times,'” she said, then licked his throat. “Want to have sex to start off with, honey?”

One big hand palmed her bottom, and his mouth caught hers, his tongue dived deep. Gods, the man knew how to kiss --

“Why, yes. Yes, Anya-love, I do,” he said huskily, “but please remember who's driving,” and without warning he took a couple of steps backward and then leaned back.

As they fell laughing onto the unmade bed, the eye-glass on the nightstand glittered like a small golden sun.

THE END


End file.
